


Gri(e)f Lingers

by creatrixanimi, RiaTheDreamer



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dead characters already dead, Falling In Love, Friendship, Grief/Mourning, Huggins is the cutest grim reaper, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Illustrated, M/M, Slow Burn, ghost au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-13
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2019-06-27 01:15:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 29,501
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15675063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/creatrixanimi/pseuds/creatrixanimi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/RiaTheDreamer/pseuds/RiaTheDreamer
Summary: Simmons, being logical, is sure of three things:1)	Everything has a scientific explanation.2)	Ghost don’t exist.3)	And if they do, then you can’t fall in love with them.





	1. Boner Street

It was on days like these that Simmons truly understood why his father had thrown out his entire comic book collection, that fateful day back in eighth grade. While Simmons had cried his eyes out back then, he could now see that it had been a reasonable and logical decision, especially now. Just the idea of carrying nine extra boxes to the new apartment made him feel tired.

But even when things looked bad (and 69 Boner Street was a bad sight, indeed, with its crooked windows and overgrown façade) there were some positive things to point out. For example, while it certainly turned out to be a pain to carry the moving boxes to the fifth floor, at least he had a good view.

To be fair, once Simmons had brushed the dust off the window glass with a napkin, it turned out to be an up-close view of the building next door. And while the worn red bricks probably weren’t the nicest thing to wake up to in the morning, at least there was a red banner to steal his attention. Something about _Sarge’s Garage and Accommodation Call 69-69-_

And then he’d have to visit the neighbor to read the rest of it. Not that he cared – that name rang a bell in his memory, and he was pretty sure Sarge was the name of the landlord. The name was hard to forget. Mainly because it barely counted as a name.

He was on his way to carry the last two boxes up the stairs, and he’d just reached the fourth floor when the step gave away.

“Son of a-“

And of course the top box was the one containing his coin jar.

Simmons stumbled down the stairs, losing his grip on the packages in the process, and when he finally slammed against the linoleum floor, he feared the terrible sound of broken glass.

“The back of my head,” he groaned and tried to sit up to take in the scene of his belonging spilled all over the staircase. His coin jar was seemingly trying to escape the place, rolling down stairs with the coins clinking against the glass.

_Thump, thump, thump_ -

Simmons smacked the back of his head against the floor again, this time in defeat, as he could hear his jar continue all the way down to the first floor.

“No noise after 10pm!”

The thundering loud noise almost gave him a heart attack – and as he’d recovered from the second almost heart attack he’d gained by nearly falling down the stairs from the first heart attack, he found himself staring right up at a scarred, annoyed face.

Simmons opened his mouth. “It’s- It’s only 5pm, sir.”

“It always starts like that. But then the sky turns dark and the sun starts to set. ‘It’s not my fault’, they say, oh, but I know better. So. Are ya a noise polluter?”

“No, sir,” Simmons replied because he’d never received a noise complaint in his life before, ever. Only people who didn’t read the tenant rules would ever be so rude, unless, of course, they just had no shame in life.

And Simmons had plenty of shame in his life.

“Huh,” the older man huffed, crossing his arms across his stained, red shirt and squeezing his eyes closed as he looked him over with a narrowed glare. “You must be Simmons.”

“How- How did you guess that, sir?” He pushed himself up by the palm, trying not to grimace at the sight of the stains on the floor. Instead he focused on smiling, trying to make a good impression now when he was in front of who he supposed was the landlord. In a sudden moment of hopefulness, he straightened out his back and asked, “Is it because of my good mood and proper manners that were both surely reflected in my cover letter where I expressed my genuine and in no way exaggerated interest in apartment e11?”

“No,” the landlord said immediately. “Your name’s written on your box.”

They both turned their heads to stare at the moving box that had ripped open, its contents spilling across the floor. The letters _S I M M O N S_ were written with a black marker on the cardboard.

“Oh,” he said and kneeled down again to fix the mess. He was quite sure he’d heard the voice earlier, when he’d gone to fetch his key for the new apartment. When he’d entered the landlord’s office, he’d discovered it was in fact a garage, and he’d thought himself alone in the room until he’d seen the pair of legs sticking out from beneath a jeep.

Simmons had offered his help, explained why he’d intruded in the middle of his work, but a muffled voice had just shouted for him to pick up the keys and let him do his upgrades in peace. Simmons, used to orders being shouted at him, had complied.

Now he realized the man who’d yelled at him in the garage was the one who’d yelled at him in the stairway, at least judging from the oil smear across his cheeks and forehead. And from the scars (some fresh and pink while others had paled through time) in his wind-worn face, he guessed that these technical upgrades could be a messy affair if things went wrong.

“I’m Richard Simmons,” he said, holding out a hand, and he tried his best not to grimace when he found it covered in grease after being shaken. “You must be-“

“Sarge.”

The reply was immediate, and Simmons found himself staring with his mouth wide open. “…Is that a surname or a- a title-?”

Instead of answering the question, Sarge just straightened out his back and looked at the staircase rather than the newcomer. “I’ll tell Lopez the step needs fixing. I’m going easy on you this time, son, because you were my favorite.”

Those words, spoken in a rough and casual manner, were the sentence Simmons had been waiting for his entire life. He’d never heard them from his father – and that was such an awful failure, that he couldn’t even be the favorite child when he didn’t have any siblings.

“I- I am?” Simmons said, and his stutter was back, stronger than ever, but this time it was from disbelief rather than anxiety.

But, despite his fears, Sarge nodded. “Sure. I read the cover letter. No musical skills, no urge for tinkering. Absolutely no social life, hobbies limited to math and coding-“

“Which are two very valuable skills, I might add-” Simmons found himself saying in a weak defense of the sudden stream of facts. Sure, when he’d introduced himself in the letter, he’d been sure to somewhat describe his personality to prove he’d be the perfect tenant. But he’d focused on the good traits like how he’d obey any house rules and how cleaning calmed him down.

But, obviously, Sarge had focused on his other descriptions. He continued mercilessly: “-not to mention how you conveniently didn’t bring up any specific music taste, which can, naturally, only mean you have a distaste for every single channel on the radio-“

Simmons held up a finger, quietly adding: “-Not quite. I mean, one has to respect the classics-“

“-and so I can remove you from the list of suspects for the weekly, aggravating yet despicably catchy Britney Spears nights.”

There was a million ways that Sarge could have ended his sentence, but this might be the most surprising one.

Simmons blinked. “I… what?”

“I will find them,” Sarge hissed under his breath, clenching his fists. “And I will mute them. If I have to listen to _Baby One More Time_ ONE MORE TIME I-“

“-Cantarás junto. Como ocurrencias previas han probado.” [-Will sing along. As previous occurrences have proved.]

Simmons almost jumped in surprise as another person entered the now very crowded staircase. Like Sarge, he was covered in oil smears, but his tan face was free from scars and his hard, brown eyes were staring directly at him.

Trying not to feel intimidated by the Spaniard’s emotionless expression – and failing at doing so – Simmons held out his hand again. “Hi. I’m Simmons-“

Sarge moved in front of him, flailing his arms wildly as he introduced him. “He’s moving into E11,” he said, rather briefly.

Very slowly, the black-haired man turned his head to stare at Simmons again. Only his mouth moved as he said, “Estás jodido.” [You’re fucked.]

“I, uhm, don’t understand Spanish.”

“Lo cual es una pena para ti. Ahora todas mis advertencias serán desperdiciadas.” [Which is a shame for you. Now all my warnings will be wasted.]

Sarge laughed loudly, as if the blank-faced man had just told them a great joke, and he patted his shoulder with his hand. “That won’t keep Lopez from understanding his job. Lopez. The step is-“ To show his point, he pressed the back of his foot against the wooden step, speaking slowly and clearly. “ _Broken_.”

Lopez blinked once. “Sí. Ya veo. Por favor pise de nuevo.” [Yes. I see. Please step on it again.]

Letting out a frustrated huff, Sarge went even further in his attempt to illustrate the problem, and he placed both on his feet – wearing combat boots, Simmons dully noted – on the step. “I said: the step is broo-keen-“

They both watched as he slipped, falling backwards until his back connected with the floor. Simmons winced as he saw the air being knocked out of his lungs, and it was a relief when Sarge sat up a moment afterwards, rubbing the back of his head.

While Sarge let out a string of curses, Simmons backed away from the older man. “I… Pleasure to meet you. I’ll just carry the rest of my stuff upstairs.” As Lopez kept glaring at him, Simmons made sure to discreetly move around him, pressing his back against the railing until he reached the upper floor.

“No te molestes en desempacar, estarás saliendo pronto de aquí.” [Don’t bother unpacking – you’ll be running out of here soon.]

“Thank you for the welcome,” Simmons muttered quickly under his breath, and then fled to his new apartment as fast as he could carry his belongings.

He’d just placed the last box on the worn, wooden floor, when he remembered it.

“My penny jar,” he said and rushed down the stairs again. Lopez and Sarge had already left, but the step remained broken, and he let out a loud yell as he barely managed to avoid falling once more.

The jar wasn’t on the third floor. It wasn’t on the second floor either.

Instead Simmons found it at the very bottom of the stairs, near the broken entrance door, in the hands of a stranger.

The orange hoodie immediately made Simmons alert (he knew he was no longer in the secure part of the city), and as he got a proper look at him, he saw that it was a teenager, looking like he’d barely reached the twenty years of age. His young face was contorted into an annoyed frown, and he held the jar in a firm grip.

The glass was intact, and Simmons let out a huge breath.

“Oh thank god, it didn’t break,” he said, automatically reaching for it, only to realize the teenager was staring at him, unmoving. “This is my jar,” he tried to explain, but his words only seemed to confuse the stranger even further. “It’s, uh, an old tradition. So my dad used to say that when you succeed at an accomplishment, you can have a penny in the jar because- because in order to evaluate yourself you have to weigh your worth, but worth – it doesn’t really weigh anything, but that’s why you have the pennies so that at the end of the year, you can see if you’re really that successful…”

The teen didn’t say anything. He just stared at him, a bored look in his brown eyes.

The rejection made Simmons trail off. “It’s stupid, really, but I – well, I keep having pennies around so I thought...” He focused on the jar again, still relieved that he hadn’t been forced to pick up broken pieces at the end of the stairs. “Thank you.”

“You’re new here,” the teenager said, eyes narrowing.

“Yes, I-“

“Here’s your jar.”

Before Simmons could say anything, the jar was shoved into his arms, and the teenager walked past him, brushing his shoulder against him in order to make way to the staircase.

Simmons listened to the sound of feet against the wooden steps until finally – a door slammed shut somewhere above him.

Pressing the jar against his chest, Simmons sighed as the light in the stairwell broke, leaving him in darkness.

* * *

Fortunately, the light in the apartment still worked perfectly.

When he’d applied for the apartment, he’d known it wasn’t exactly the place with the best ratings. But he needed a roof above his head, and without his father’s support, he’d been forced to find somewhere cheap – and cheap was the best description of this place.

So maybe the wallpaper had holes in it, and the upper cupboard wouldn’t close, and the bathroom had this weird smell, and the floor kept creaking, and the sink was rusty, and the view was horrible.

But it was an apartment and it was Simmons’, and it gave him peace and quiet and a place to live all on his own.

He placed the jar on the floor, giving it a gentle pat as he watched the treasure within. The jar was barely a quarter full, because if everything counted as an accomplishment, then nothing was an accomplishment.

But he’d given himself a penny when he’d found a job, and another one when he’d been promised the apartment. Building a life wasn’t easy, but Simmons was clever and he was persistent and he knew to always say yes.

And even if it wasn’t his dream job and this wasn’t his dream home, at least it was something.

“This is nice,” he said firmly and began to unpack.

It was when he’d just placed the last pans in the kitchen cupboard that he noticed that the fridge was open. “Weird,” he said and quickly closed it. He couldn’t afford the waste the energy.

Then the doorbell rang, and Simmons had to admit that he was surprised to hear that it worked.

Of course, it was an even bigger surprise that someone would visit him.

He opened the door and found himself staring straight into a smiling face.

“Hi! I’m Franklin Delano Donut!”

The guy was grinning brightly, a happy look in his eyes, and a bouncing energy simply radiating from him.

But it was the name that threw Simmons off the most (well, that and the brightly pink tank top), having driven by numerous donut shops on his way to his new home. “Donut? As in-”

“I’m your upstairs neighbor!” he explained, long blond hair falling in waves around his face as he stepped forward to shove a giant basket into his hands. “Pleasure to meet you! Here.”

Nearly drowning in the see-through wrapping paper surrounding the basket, Simmons managed to stammer, “I- Thank you.” He tilted his head and realized it wasn’t filled with fruit as he’d expected. Not that he’d ever received a warm welcome before, but he’d seen it depicted in movies before.

“I figured that since I’m the one on top, I should go with a proper approach,” Donut said, smiling again to show off his white teeth, so flawless that Simmons wondered if he worked as a dentist model. “I took the ‘spoiled’ and ‘rotten’ out of the standard fruit, and decided to _spoil you rotten_ instead!”

“That sounds… nice?” Simmons said, voice turning unsure as he saw numerous face lotions and bodygels and shampoo (and was that _lube_?!). But of course he remembered his manners and he straightened out his back to say: “Thank you.”

“No problem!” Tilting his head, Donut managed to peek inside the apartment where several boxes were still decorating the floor. “I can see you’ve already unloaded your goods, but feel free to knock on my door if you need anything.”

Simmons forced himself to smile, even though the exhaustion was trying to pull his lips downwards. It had been a long day. “I think I have everything I might need right here…” He took a step backwards, keeping a grip on the basket. “But thanks.”

“No problem,” Donut said with a light shrug. “And if I catch your interest, I did use to hold some small get-togethers in the weekend. Are you by any chance a fan of wine? Or cheese? Or Britney Spears?”

“I- What?”

“Who am I kidding – we all love her,” he said before letting out a giggle. Then, in less than a second, his expression turned strangely grave, a frown pulling at his flawless skin. “Kai used to bring the karaoke game – and the spare liquor – but I suppose she has to sing her impressively high notes somewhere else.”

Simmons had learned many new names today, but that one was new to him and it didn’t ring a bell. “Who’s Kai?”

Donut’s smile remained, as if permanently stuck to his face, but it was small now, sad. “She used to live here with her brother before…” Then he shook his head, blond hair going everywhere, and he waved Simmons off. “It’s quite sad, really, we shouldn’t bring it up. Tears are not the way to keep your eyelashes curled, as you know!” He clasped his hands together, gaining eye-contact as he said, “I hope you feel at home here at Boner Street!”

When Simmons managed to close the door and place the basket on the counter, he saw from the corner of his eye that the fridge door was open again.

He closed it, adding more pressure this time, and he huffed in satisfaction when he checked and found it properly closed.

Though it was hard to find space for all Donut’s gifts in the bathroom, the rest of the unpacking went rather quickly. At least being able to stuff your entire life belongings into a total of nine boxes made it easy to move from place to place.

A lot of the furniture had been left behind for him to use, even without him paying extra. Apparently, the previous tenant had wanted to get out of here as quickly as possible.

That should _probably_ be a bad sign. But then again – Simmons had wanted to flee from his parents’ house as quickly as possible. He shouldn’t judge.

The bed was worn and stained, and Simmons was sure to cover it with a sheet before lying down. It creaked, but Simmons was too tired to care.

He closed his eyes, breathed in deeply and tried to fall asleep, despite the fact this was a home new home and the smell was different and the sounds were different and his life would be different now and-

There was a bulge in the middle of the bed.

Groaning, Simmons shoved a hand beneath the old mattress and pulled out a-

A dildo.

He was holding a dildo.

With a shriek he threw it across the floor, gagging as the horror set in.

After washing his hands nine times in warm water and applying an appropriate amount of sanitizer, Simmons found the courage to carefully pick up the sex toy with three layers of paper towels. He threw it in the bin, feeling the worries seep from his mind as he crawled under his blanket again.

Whoever this Kai had been, she hadn’t been good at cleaning up after herself.

* * *

The next morning, he found the bin knocked over, the dildo exposing itself on the floor.

The apartment must be crooked, of course. That would also explain why the fridge door was open. Again.

Simmons focused on his work instead, several pages filled with numbers waiting for him. Being an accountant wasn’t how he’d imagined his life to turn out, but it paid the rent and he could even work from home – though judging from the shitty internet connection he now was stuck with, perhaps it wasn’t the ideal situation.

But it kept his mind busy, and before heading to bed, he gave the fridge door an extra push and threw more paper-balls in the bin to join the dildo in the trash.

The hum of the city was more familiar to him now, and he fell asleep to the sound of screeching wheels and muffled yelling.

* * *

Swinging his legs away from the bed, his feet stepped right into the trash.

“What the fuck?” he asked out loud, expression horrified at seeing the dildo once more. Simmons had counted on eventually gaining a nemesis in his life – all successful people had one – but he’d never imagined it to be a sex toy.

But he was going to win this battle, and the dildo would stay in the trash where it belonged.

Simmons tried to figure out what was going on. There had to be a logical explanation, of course, to why this apartment seemed to hate him. But it could surely be blamed on shifty building structure and bad windows, and his paranoia was just punishment for the time he’d been thirteen and had stayed up late to watch a horror film on the tv, despite his father telling him no.

He’d had poor judgement back then but now- but now…

But now it was Monday, he realized, which meant he had to check the mail box for more bills and letters. His main worry was of course the bills. He hadn’t even sure why he, for a brief moment, had wondered if there’d been a letter from his father, because that would be stupid, very stupid, and Simmons was too smart to think of such a thing.

So he wasn’t disappointed when he could only place a handful of bills on the kitchen counter.

Simmons tried his best not to sigh, running a hand through his red hair as he felt-

He felt like someone was watching him.

Looking over his shoulder, he saw that of course there was no one else present in the room but him.

That should be obvious, of course.

Expecting anything else would be stupid, and Simmons was very smart.

* * *

The dildo was on the floor again the next morning, and Simmons definitely didn’t cry. Instead he checked the corners of the room for any hidden cameras, and he placed a bubble level on the floor. He might as well check, just in case he had to file any complaints to Sarge.

But the floor was – surprisingly, considering the worn-down façade – even.

Simmons bit his lip and decided that it must be the windows’ fault.

He was on the way to check on the fridge door, as a part of his daily routine, when he froze and reconsidered his actions. Hand safely covered with a paper towel, he picked up the dildo but this time he placed it in one of his now empty boxes.

Securing the lid, he made sure to push it into the further corner beneath the bed. Out of sight, out of mind. He might as well keep it there until he could dispose of it properly.

The floor creaked.

Simmons spun around, face already heated from the thought of being caught with his hands on a dildo, of all things! He could already imagine his mother’s horrified screams and his father’s scolding-

There was no one else in the apartment.

Of course.

Simmons forced himself to breathe in deeply, deciding that if he’d won the war and the bin wasn’t knocked over tomorrow, that’d mean a penny to the jar.

A success. One at a time.

Starting with the dildo.

* * *

_He only heard the first two gunshots – by the third one he was already falling, his senses failing, and his chest was exploding, it hurt, it hurt, it was like fire, like flames, burning his lungs, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he’s dying, he’s-_

Simmons woke up to the sound of the penny jar shattering against the floor.

* * *

Grif didn’t know why he was here, or why the guy was here, or why everything was so cold. Was the radiator broken again? He had to tell Sarge about that, he had to tell him-

He had to find Kai. That’s what he had to do. Was she out partying again? He couldn’t remember where she’d gone, he couldn’t find a note and-

Why was the guy here?

Why was he here?

Where was Kai?


	2. For Science

At least – _at least_ there was always a bright side. With the jar shattered, he at least had to opportunity to count his pennies. Forty-seven pennies. All put in stacks of five – and then the two coins as a smaller bundle at the end.

Forty-seven.

So…

Basically nothing.

Not enough to buy him a single piece of gum.

Nothing.

And when it came to evaluating his self-worth…

Also nothing.

Pieces of glass were shattered across the floor, like his broken self-esteem. He picked up the pieces carefully, wrapping them in paper before throwing them in the bin.

So maybe the apartment was a little messy. He could live with that.

And it had a natural explanation, of course. Old apartments had a higher chance of becoming messy, things broke more easily.

Simmons gathered his pennies in a vase and made sure to push it as close against the wall as possible.

* * *

Day six in the apartment, Simmons sighed in relief when he went to the kitchen to get himself some breakfast and found that the fridge door still closed.

“Finally,” he said, taking out his milk now when he was sure it was properly cold, just like wanted it. “My mind must have been playing tricks on me.”

That was when he noticed the fridge magnets had organized themselves in what looked like a very rude gesture.

* * *

Day nine, he tried to watch a history documentary about all the events that had led to the Great War. He’d actually looked forward to it, prepared some popcorn and everything.

But every few minutes, the tv would change to another channel. Either he’d suddenly be watching food commercials (that fried chicken song was stuck in his brain now) or it’d be some stupid stand-up comedy program were the jokes wasn’t even funny.

“Stop it,” he muttered under his breath, which was stupid, really, since there was no one else in the room.

He switched back to the documentary and got to enjoy it for a few moments before-

This time it’d managed to find a channel showing the old _Star War_ movies, and Simmons had reached for the remote, ready to fight for the power, when he realized he actually preferred sci-fi movies over historic documentaries.

“Oh,” he said and put some popcorn in his mouth.

* * *

Day eleven, he woke up in the middle of the night to a mysterious sound. “What the fuck?” he asked, face still pressed against the pillow.

It was like a faint echo of an earthquake, things shaking…

It was the sound of the dildo vibrating beneath his bed, inside the box, Simmons realized, and he had to fight back tears.

* * *

Day thirteen, someone rang the doorbell.

Simmons opened it, bags under his eyes, and a big part of him expected to find no one outside. So many things had malfunctioned lately, it wouldn’t surprise him if the door bell was about to join the bunch.

So when there was no one within his field of vision, he just sighed, accepted his misery, and turned around to step back into his apartment of horrors. But that was when he noticed he indeed had a visitor.

He’d just been too small for him to notice at first glance.

“Oh my god,” Simmons said, jumping two feet in the air at the sight of the toddler that had apparently managed to walk into his living room when he hadn’t been looking.

The toddler said nothing but just continued to suck on his blue blanket that he held in a firm grip against his mouth. Curly black hair surrounded his chubby face.

“Hiiiiiiiiiiiiiii…” Simmons said nervously, letting his voice slowly fade away when his false optimistic energy died. “Uhm, where’s your mom, little buddy?”

The child said nothing.

“Shoo,” Simmons tried carefully, waving towards the exit. “Shoo… You’re real, right? It’s not just the restless nights slowly breaking apart my sanity and now it’s giving my false hallucinations in order to deal with the otherwise unexplainable events?”

The toddler removed the blanket from his mouth and said, “Gwif.”

“Junior!”

Simmons spun around at the sound of the strange voice, and he found its owner in the doorway – a man he hadn’t seen before, dark-skinned, wearing an aqua singlet. Simmons was still staring at the print on the clothes (just what did bow-chicka-wow-wow mean?) when he realized the man had already made his way into his apartment.

“Uhm…”

“Junior!” the guy said again, taking the kid’s hand. The toddler smiled at the sight of him, pressing himself against his leg as he stared up at Simmons.

His dad did the same. “Sorry about that,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “He didn’t know you’ve moved in.”

“I didn’t try to kidnap him!” Simmons exclaimed, just so that fact was clear. “He walked in here himself!”

The man sent him a tired smile. “Yeah, we visited Grif a lot. Before-“

“Gwif!” the toddler said. Nobody seemed to notice how the kid had turned away from them, staring at the corner of the room instead.

“That’s right, buddy,” the man said, ruffling his son’s hair absentmindedly before talking to Simmons again. “Yeah, he doesn’t understand Grif doesn’t live here anymore. I’d say it won’t happen again, but he’s quite the runner! And he isn’t even three yet. If he keeps growing, he’s sure to get a spot on the basketball team.”

Simmons blinked, not quite sure how to respond to proud parent talk. It wasn’t like he’d ever heard his dad praise him like that… “I, uh…” He waved his hand in the air, shrugging in an unsure manner. “Kids. Eh.”

“We live in the top apartment. I’m Tucker, by the way.”

Shaking his hand, Simmons introduced himself. “Dick Simmons.”

“And this is Junior,” Tucker said, patting his hair again. “C’mon, bud. Time for dinner.”

”Gwif,” the kid said as his dad gently pulled him out of the apartment. His small hand was pointing at the corner, where the half-empty boxes were still stacked. “Gwif!”

Tucker didn’t seem to notice it, but Simmons was still staring at the spot after the small family had closed the door on their way out.

“Okay,” Simmons said, unable to forget the sight of the kid waving to seemingly no one. “This is creepy. But fine. Creepy. But _fine_. Just fine-“

He hung his head in defeat when he heard the penny vase shatter.

* * *

The cryptic store was exactly what he’d expected. And he had quite the expectations after finding out it was placed in the outskirt of the city, in the furthest corner of an alley, near the cemetery. Which, he supposed, did help the overall theme, actually. But it didn’t make it less sketchy.

The windows were covered with posters of various films that claimed to belong under the documentary genre but seemed to be horror or comedy if anything. Simmons narrowed his eyes to see that one of the films was all the way from 2509. Not that he carried any hatred against old classics, of course, but even with how the poster had faded due to age, he could still see the synthetic hairs in the werewolf’s fur!

Dried herbs were hanging from the top of the window, and as he stepped inside the store, he quickly realized they were the cause of the heavy smell of spice. It made his nostrils flare, and he sneezed twice before he even reached the center of the room.

The tall shelves, filled with various tech he didn’t recognize but also comics and thicker books, blocked his vison, but an energic voice was too loud to be ignored.

“I’m telling you, it’d be a waste of money.”

“Of course it’d be a waste,” another voice replied, and Simmons froze, realizing he’d heard the voice before. “Palomo, ghosts don’t exist.”

“That’s not what I meant! I’m just saying we could make our own and save money.”

“So – what? You wanna upgrade your mom’s vacuum?  Sprinkle some salt on it and recite some rites?”

“Ghosts thrive on negativity, Bitters. I’d be careful with that attitude if I were you.”

Simmons was still frozen on the spot when the two teenagers appeared from behind the shelf, turning a corner. Wearing the same orange hoodie from the day he’d picked up Simmons’ jar, the teenager widened his eyes at the sight of Simmons.

The idea of going to a cryptic store was embarrassing enough in itself. He was a man of science, after all.

But to have this humiliating situation witnessed by a neighbor…

Simmons coughed awkwardly as the teen’s narrowed eyes made it clear he recognized him. “I, uh… Hi!” he stammered, clearing his throat. “ _This is not what you think_!”

“Doesn’t that depend on what I think?” the teenager, apparently named Bitters. “’cause I’m thinking you’re beginning to seem like a creepy stalker.”

“ _Bitters_!” his friend gasped, hands going to either side of his face. “Maybe he’s just a customer!”

“Yeah, that only removes the ‘stalker’ part. Not the ‘creepy’ part.”

“I’m a customer!” Simmons shrieked, having to admit this humiliating fact in order to defend his honor. “I’m just- I’m just here for… _something_.”

The teen in the green shirt – the one with kind and happy eyes – sent him a smile. “Ooh, we could help! It’s hard to find your way in this shop – they have so much stuff!”

“-Because no one buys anything,” Bitters muttered under his breath.

“I don’t need help,” Simmons said, despite the fact that he’d just moved to a new city, that he had no friends, that he hated his job and his fridge was broken and his penny jar was shattered and he had a haunted dildo beneath his bed. “I just need to find this- _thing_ because I- I need this- _thing_. Yes.”

The other teenager – Palomo, if he’d heard right – blinked, still smiling as he polity asked, “So… What are you looking for?”

“ _Nothing_.”

“Right,” Bitters snorted, rolling his eyes as he wiped some dusts off one of the shelves. “Because someone would come all the way out to this hellhole for _nothing_.”

And then two pair of suspicious teenage eyes were glaring at him.

Simmons, not breaking under the pressure, kept his cool and leaned against the shelf with a _cool_ and _confident_ attitude, and he said, “Oh, well, you know… It’s just that I need this board… Ouija board. For stuff. Scientific stuff. Because I am a man of science. That I am. And that’s why I need the board. The Ouija board. Originally created and named in Baltimore, the name itself supposedly being an Egyptian phrase, meant for spiritual communication-“

“Palomo’s already read the wiki,” Bitters hissed, pressing his palm against his forehead. “We don’t need you repeating it.”

“They sell Ouija boards over there,” his friend replied helpfully, pointing him in the direction of a messy stack of crates in the corner. “They also have the newest edition. You know, the one with the hashtag symbol-“

“Thank you,” Simmons said, cutting him off. He tried his best to inch around Bitters who didn’t back away when he had to maneuver himself between the two shelves to get out.

But Simmons hadn’t managed to escape their field of vision when Palomo called out, “Wait! What do you need it for?”

“ _Nothing_!”

“Is your home haunted?!”

“No!”

“Bitters, you didn’t say your building was haunted!”

Simmons heard Bitters sigh –  and then he tripped on the so-called werewolf trap on the floor, picked himself up, rushed to the corner, found the cheapest board, woke up the cashier, paid the prize and rushed out of the store before any unwanted and awkward conversations could be brought up.

* * *

“Well, you’re home,” Simmons said dryly when he stepped inside his apartment to see that the fridge door was opened again. “If you exist, I guess. Ah, this is stupid.”

It was. It really was. He was holding a piece of _toy_ in his hands, thinking he could disprove the laws of science.

All because a dildo and some mysterious accidents had left him sleep-deprived.

“Okay,” he said, after locking the door carefully and placing the board on the wooden floor. “Let’s do this. Just to prove that I’m right.”

He read the manual before attempting any contact, of course. Even if this was a complete hoax (which science suggested), he might as well follow the safety rules.

Unfortunately, they recommended being at least two persons in order to use the board. And since Simmons wasn’t planning on inviting his neighbor (he didn’t need Donut, of all people, to think that he was crazy), he had to break that rule.

They also recommended turning off most of the light sources in the room, as well as keeping it quiet. Easy enough. The fridge ended up illuminating most of the room, as the door kept swinging open.

The other rules were easy too: don’t taunt the spirit. Don’t ask them when you’re going to die. Don’t use the board in your own home in case an evil spirit stuck around (well, the apartment already showed signs of being haunted, so breaking this rule couldn’t hurt). Don’t leave the planchette on the board when you’re not using it. Don’t use the board in a cemetery (did people really break into those? Wasn’t that breaking the law?). Never burn the board to destroy it (why should he do that when he’d just paid 20 dollars for it?). End the session immediately if the spirit starts to count down or go through the alphabet or introduce themselves as Zozo (which was a stupid name, really).

And always close the session by moving the planchette to “Goodbye”.

It felt stupid – because it was stupid – but he sat down, put his fingers on the planchette and cleared his throat. “Uhm, hi? I’m Simmons. I’m the owner of this apartment. It’s my apartment. I live here. Please leave it alone.” He frowned, realizing none of those sentences had been a question. “Okay, so, uhm… Do you exist?”

He held his breath and waited.

Nothing.

“See – that’s enough answer in itself-“

His eyes widened when he found his fingers gliding forward as the planchette moved towards “Yes”.

“ _Fuck_ -“

And immediately the planchette placed itself on ‘U’.

“’U?’” he asked, his frown growing bigger. “’U’ as in… Are you spelling something? ‘U’… Oh. Fuck ‘U’. Hey!”

Simmons moved his glare upwards, ready to stare down the idiot. And that’s when he realized he was the only person in the room. Of course.

Feeling his logic and common sense seep out of his ears, Simmons realized he wanted to continue the conversation. That wasn’t supposed to exist. Because ghosts weren’t real. Except, apparently, they were.

“Are you the one opening the fridge?”

It took a moment before the planchette landed on “Yes” again.

“Stop doing that! It’s my fridge. _My_ apartment!”

It moved to “No”.

“’No’?” Simmons stared the board, still not moving his fingers. “What do you mean ‘No’? It’s my name on the contract! I’m the one paying the rent!”

The planchette moved again.

Simmons looked down, holding his breath as he focused on the board-

“I can see you’re trying to spell ‘fuck you’. Just drop it.”

It stopped moving.

So for a while Simmons just stared at it, fingers pressed against it to the point where his skin was turning white. And he kept them there, despite the fact that his nose was beginning to itch.

He had to get this over with.

“Leave my apartment alone,” he said sternly, and the planchette moved to give him the answer.

_No_

“Please leave my apartment alone.”

_No_

“Can you leave my apartment alone?”

_No_

He frowned, unsure where this was going. In the faint light of the open fridge, it was getting harder to see the letters, and he had to lean closer, narrowing his eyes. “Are you dead?” he asked, voice breathless.

The planchette didn’t give him any answer to that.

He waited, feeling his time and energy being wasted on this… this weirdly successful experiment.

Clearing his throat, he tried to un-hunch his shoulders without moving his fingers. “Okay, I get that’s a- that’s a really sensitive question, actually. You don’t have to answer that.” He paused but the curiosity had taken over his brain, filling it with questions. “But if you’re a ghost you’re obviously dead. Ooh, are you like an old war-hero? An ancient spirit whose remains are buried beneath this building? You could have centuries of knowledge and-“ He shook his head to clear his mind, finally coming up with a real question. “What’s the last thing you remember?”

And slowly, the ghost spelled it for him.

_T-H_

_I-N-F-N-T-R-Y_

“Hey, dumbass, you forgot the ‘A’ in ‘infantry’,” Simmons snorted, rolling his eyes. “What kind of ghost can’t fucking spell? I’m being haunted by an idiot.”

The insult had barely left his lips when the board suddenly flew from the floor, planchette hitting him right on the nose.

“HEY!” he yelled, jumping away to avoid further attacks. Narrowing his eyes, he slowly backed out of the living room. “Alright, idiot, I’m done talking with you. Stop touching my fridge! And the dildo!” He’d taken a step into the bedroom when he peeked into the room again, to add: “Which isn’t mine!” His head popped out again, not quite done yet. “I just wanted to clear that up to avoid any confusion.”

And then Simmons went to bed, never once remembering the fact that he’d forgotten to close the session with a “Goodbye”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the support, guys! It's great to see you're just as excited for this universe as I am!
> 
>  
> 
> Also, creatrix made a comic of the ouija scene (I couldn't quite make the comic fit in a chapter with its size so be sure to check it out!!):  
> http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/post/176779426692/do-you-want-poltergeists-simmons-because-this


	3. Pizza Quest

The day after Simmons’ paranormal experience he decided that ghosts didn’t exist. He came to this conclusion by reading several scientific articles about superstitions.

When he was done reading, he’d moved on to the television. He found all the ghost hunting series he could find – the ones with cliché soundtracks and overreacting hosts and technological instruments that had no logical theory behind them.

He watched the hosts scream and run when EMF meter went off (definitely their phones influencing the reading) and the EVP recorder picked up something (everything is nonsense until you try to reach for a word) and the motion sensor reacted to nothing (which was of course a rat. The house was basically falling apart).

Episode after episode was the same nonsense – hosts fleeing from nothing, claiming they have so-called evidence and then moving onto the next haunted house – and Simmons founds himself drifting off, sinking deeper into the cushions, and as the room grew darker he didn’t bother to get up to turn off the light.

It probably wasn’t the best idea, he decided, after seeing shadows move in the old cabins on the TV, while constantly listening for any sounds coming from his own apartment. It was like having a cat.

Except the cat didn’t exist and so Simmons had no reason to feel worried. So he watched the screen, sighing when it switched to commercials – for pizza, of course, and now he was forced watching grease drip off calorie filled bread covered in cheese and “meat” for the next minute.

He’d rather watch the stupid ghost hunting shows to be honest. It’d be better than this – than watching the golden cheese and the grease glinting in the bright light and the pepperonis leaning against the sausage and-

The doorbell was ringing.

Simmons blinked, shaking his head as he tried to remember what had just happened. In the TV, the female host was screaming again, claiming she’d seen something move, and she was still shrieking when Simmons pushed himself off the couch to answer the door.

He crossed his fingers it wasn’t the kid again – he was too tired to deal with a lost child right now.

So he wasn’t sure whether he should be relieved or not when he opened the door to find a pizza man standing on his doormat.

“Delivery,” he said, holding out two pizza boxes.

“I- I didn’t order anything,” Simmons stuttered, looking at the food as if he’d just pulled a rabbit out of a hat.

“Uh, yeah, you did.”

“But I didn’t.”

“But you did.”

“No,” Simmons said, shaking his head as he pulled out his phone from his pocket. “No, because if I did, we could see it right here in my recent calls…” His voice trailed off when he saw his phone betray him, letting him know he’d called _Sammie Raphaello's Pizza Restaurant_ at 18:34.

The pizza delivery man smiled smugly. “Here. A number 6 and 9. Say hi to Grif for me.”

“I, uh… Why do you think Grif is here?”

“It’s his place. Besides, who else would order a Hawaiian pizza and then leave a note saying ‘no pineapple’.”

“Grif doesn’t live here any longer,” Simmons said. “He, uh, moved out. I live here now.”

The guy blinked, obviously surprised. “Huh. That explains why he hasn’t called in a while. Dude was a regular.”

“You two were friends?”

“I was his pizza delivery guy. He once called at 2am and tried to pay me with a homemade coupon. Started crying when I told him to fuck off. I wouldn’t call that friendship.”

“I guess not.” Simmons took a step backwards into the apartment.

“You still have to pay.”

When the guy was finally satisfied with his tips, Simmons could close and lock the door and take a look at the pizzas he hadn’t (but apparently had?) ordered.

“What the fuck did you do?” he asked no one as he opened the lid to stare at the thick, glistening layer of cheese.

No one answered him, of course, and so he was left to inhale the warm fumes and the smell of – Oh god, it smelled good, and he was so hungry, how hadn’t he noticed the hunger before-

When Simmons blinked, he was in the middle of swallowing a pizza slice. “Stop doing that,” he said with his mouth full. “Is this- Are you possessing me? Is that what’s happening? No. No, it isn’t, because this is- This is…”

Still chewing, Simmons placed the Ouija board on the floor again. “Did you do this?” he asked, picking up another slice. He wasn’t sure why.

The planchette moved the part of the board containing emojis, landing on the happy face.

“Oh fuck you,” Simmons hissed. A second afterwards, the lid of the untouched pizza flew open. Watching from a safe distance, Simmons waited for the slices to disappear into thin air or _something_. “You really like pizzas, huh? It’s like, do you have a bond with them? As in – this is important for you, right? This is what you desire?”

He picked up the pizza box before slowly turning towards the window. “Because you, uh, deserve to be free. I mean, it’s better to be connected to pizza than this place, right? ‘cause, well, the place is mine now. So, uhm, you should follow your heart. And go for the pizza. You deserve that.” With a dramatic sigh, he opened window. “Be free,” Simmons said and proceeded to throw the pizza as if it was a frisbee. For a split second you could almost believe that the wind had caught it – but then it dropped faster than Simmons’ confidence.

He quickly pulled the window down before he could hear it splash against the pavement.

“…Did it work?” he asked after a few seconds of silence. “Are you- Are you there?”

The fridge door swung open with enough force to hit the cupboard.

“Damnit.”

One by one, the glasses Simmons had left to dry on the counter were sent flying to smash against the floor.

“Stop!” he yelled, helplessly watching the chaos unfold in the kitchen. “What the fuck are you doing?!”

A quick Ouija board session revealed the answer.

_M-Y_

_P-I-Z-Z-A_

:(

Sighing, Simmons kept his fingers on the planchette. “What the fuck do you want me to do? I’m not buying you a new one.”

Half an hour later, the doorbell rang again.

“They’re not all for me,” Simmons stuttered after paying the same delivery man as before, now wearing an even more amused expression. “I’m, uh, having a party.”

“Uh-huh,” the guy said.

His voice was very loud in the deafening silence.

“It’s a quiet party,” Simmons explained. “We read novels. And eat pizza. A lot of pizza. Three pizzas. We like pizza.”

“Not enough to tip me five dollars.”

“I tipped you last time and-“

He cut himself off, turning his head sharply at the sound of quick footsteps down the worn stairs, echoing in the quiet stairway.

“No.”

“But, Bitters-“

“I fucking told you, Palomo, that wasn’t a UFO.”

“But I got a picture of it-“

“It’s blurry and not even in focus, you were just trying to get a picture of the cat-“

“It was destiny, Bitters – the UFO showed up at the right exact moment-“

“It isn’t an UFO!”

“Ghost, then!”

“It isn’t a fucking ghost,” Bitters growled as the two teenagers stumbled their way down the stairs as quickly as they could, nearly jumping over the delivery guy in the process. “It just looked like a fucking pizza.”

“And just why would a pizza be flying, Bitters? Huh? Answer that, you non-believer!”

When the door had slammed shut behind them, Simmons sighed deeply, and handed the guy another five bucks.

Locking the door firmly behind him, Simmons could finally put the new pizza box on the counter. He opened lid so that the ghost could get easier access, however that worked. And, honestly, just who would order a Hawaiian pizza without the pineapples?

Simmons shook his head but only said: “Here’s your fucking pizza. Leave me alone.”

Resting in front of the TV, he found the remains of his own pizza, turned up the volume so he wouldn’t overhear whatever evil that possessed his apartment tear apart a meal.

Except, well, it didn’t really turn out the way Simmons had expected it.

_Splash._

_Splash._

_Splash._

“What the fuck are you doing?” Simmons asked as he looked over his shoulder to see the pizza slices, one by one, fly from the box onto the tiled floor. His toes curled at the sight of the tomato sauce splattered all over.

He didn’t get an answer.

Instead, another second passed-

-And a slice was thrown in his direction.

“Hey!” he yelled as he had to jump out of the way. Cursing under his breath, he placed the Ouija board on the table once more, cursing under his breath. “Eat your damn pizza,” he said, knowing full well that he would be the one to clean up the mess. “I bought you the pizza. Why won’t you just eat it?”

It hit him before he even got the answer.

“…Can you eat the pizza?”

 The planchette landed on a smiley.

_:(_

* * *

Things got worse after that. He wasn’t sure what had happened but the curse – or whatever was happening in this place – seemed to have gained strength after the pizza incident.

The morning after, he’d cleaned up the mess in the kitchen. It’d been quiet then.

And then it began.

It started with the light in the bathroom. Simmons was brushing his teeth, staring straight into the mirror, looking at his own pale and exhausted expression when the light above him began to flicker.

He froze, drool dripping from his lower lip.

In the split seconds of darkness, he could see nothing. In the split seconds of light, he saw himself, wide-eyed, panicked like a deer in the middle of the road-

And then there was someone behind him, the broad figure surrounded by waves of black hair, brown eyes staring at him from a brown face, expression pained, the red all over, dripping from the forehead, from the holes in the orange armor-

The lightbulb broke.

“Fuck,” Simmons said.

* * *

He didn’t have any spare bulbs lying around, which led him to try to find Lopez. Sarge had told him to just find the janitor if he needed anything, and Simmons really needed light in his bathroom, so he could aim for the toilet again.

He found the quiet, Spanish man on the street next to the apartment, cleaning up the remains of a very flat pizza that had been half-eaten by rats.

“Hi,” Simmons said.

Lopez said nothing.

“So, uhm, my light broke. Do you think you can fix it?”

“Sí.”

“…Can you do it now?”

“Sí.”

“Will you do it now?”

* * *

 The day afterwards, the pipe started leaking.

And the leak was defined as sprays of water being ejected from the cracks as if someone had placed a geyser inside his drain pipe.

“Why?” Simmons asked, sitting on the floor in defeat, feeling his clothes getting more soaked by the second.

* * *

 This time he found Lopez next to the broken vending machine.

“Uhm, hey, Lopez. Thanks for the help yesterday. I was thinking… So, uhm, do you have time? Right now? I have a little problem. And it’s growing bigger by the minute?”

Lopez sighed.

* * *

 The third day the fridge broke.

Apparently, the power had been off the entire night, and all the food had gotten spoiled in the process. Simmons gagged after opening the fridge door, the stench causing him to double over and put a hand on his mouth.

The entire apartment smelled like a decaying corpse.

* * *

 “Heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeey, Lopez.”

The Spaniard, a trash bag in each hand, just glared at him.

* * *

 On the fourth day his radiator stopped working.

“Why?” Simmons asked the Ouija board.

The planchette stayed on the sad smiley.

* * *

 Lopez was crouched in front of the distribution board when Simmons cleared his throat behind him.

“Hi, Lopez,” he said, wringing his hands. “It really isn’t my fault.”

“Mi salario no vale esto.” [My salary isn’t worth this.]

“Thank you, Lopez.”

* * *

 On the firth day, he ran out of water in the middle of a shower.

As he felt the last drop tickle his forehead, he inhaled deeply. “I hate this place so much,” he said, wrapping himself in a robe in a quick and angry movement.

His feet left wet puddles on the stairs as he made his way down to the garage, careful not to slip. “Lopez?” he called out carefully, not wanting anyone else to see him in this pitiful state. “Lopez, are you here? Something happened again. And you really can’t blame me for it. I know it’s weird and…”

He trailed off, realizing the place was empty. The light was still turned on, allowing him to see the mess – a workbench covered in blueprints, a rusted car with no wheels, piles of broken electronics in the corner, something that looked like a collection of old microwaves, and a big pinboard with the words _BATTLE PLAN_ written across the top of it.

Simmons took a step closer, water still dripping from his red hair.

He knew that Sarge spent most of his time here, working on his unnamed project. He also knew that he probably should have knocked before entering, and that he shouldn’t be standing here, alone, uninvited, half-naked.

But his eyes had spotted the picture nailed to the board, wrinkled around the edges but mainly intact.

He recognized the happy bunch of people – most of them, at least. Tucker with Junior on his lap. Palomo and Bitters – the perfect contrast between cheerful and bored. Donut sending the camera a smile as if it was a photoshoot. Sarge to the right side, dragged into the picture by a girl wearing less clothes than Simmons at the moment.

Her hair was dark and wild, the same color as the man sitting next to her, wearing an orange t-shirt.  

Simmons knew he didn’t know him, so why did he seem so familiar?

Afterwards, when he’d fled the garage, wet feet slipping on the concrete, he couldn’t stop thinking about how they’d all been smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Future Ouija boards have smileys. If you buy the deluxe version you get hashtags.


	4. Clichés

After this, Simmons began the real research.

Which included IMDB’s list of top fifty ghost movies.

Well, he had to start somewhere.

“I see dead people,” Simmons announced firmly, clicking his heels together for good measure.

It was, of course, a lie. Simmons hadn’t seen any bodies. Or ghosts, for that sake. But he’d seen evidence of haunting, and ghosts were by definition ‘apparitions of dead persons’.

After he’d said the statement out loud, he felt better. Just slightly.

Because, apparently, maybe, there was a possibility that his apartment was haunted. And, if that was maybe, possibly, somehow the case, then Simmons would gain evidence. He would find proof and show it to the world. He’d make a discovery and be known for it. And then – then he wouldn’t be crazy.

For a moment he thought it might have worked – he was sure he felt a cold chill through the room and the hair on his arms stood up straight. For a split second he remembered that reflection in the mirror – the dark hair, the orange armor, the blood-

-And then the moment passed.

* * *

The recording began with a second of flickering before the pale man appeared in the middle of the screen. He looked nervous, eyes constantly jumping around. The danger itself was not evident. Yet.

He cleared his throat, leaning closer to the camera.

“My name is Richard Simmons. Sometimes called Dick. Not very often. Mostly by friends. So… I, well, I’m mostly known as Simmons. I am recording this because I’m not sure if I’ll make it through the weekend. I-”

He flinched, cut off by a shattering noise in the background, hidden from the view of the camera.

 “It’s getting worse every day,” he said when he’d regained his posture. “I think I angered it. I-“

He turned his head, watching the fridge behind him. Slowly, with a barely audible screeching noise, the round black magnets began to move.

Visibly shaken, the man gulped, stuttering as he continued, “If you find this, I am most likely dead. Or- or out buying new plates. I’m recording this because- Well, because no one would believe me. They’d think I’m insane. Which I probably am. It’s-“

Behind the magnets had placed themselves in a pattern spelling the name – or word, some would argue – D I C K.

The man’s expression darkened at the sight.  “Oh haha, that’s so funny. Do you think you are funny? Well, the joke’s on you, asshole, I’m the one who told you my name-“

Some static was shown before the screen cut to black.

* * *

The next step was probably a cliché.

But a cliché was just another word for classic.

And you should never underestimate the classics.

Simmons forced himself to stare at his reflection in the mirror. He couldn’t help but notice the bags under his eyes. This whole thing was driving him crazy, and it’d begun to haunt his brain at night. He’d turn and twist in his bed, wondering what would come next, how he could fix the broken furniture, broken pipes, how to fix _this_.

And when he finally slept, his dreams would be invaded by the smell of smoke, screaming in the distance, a sharp burning pain in the middle of his chest, and then the voice inside his skull, yelling, begging, echoing, Kai, Kai, Kai, Kai, _Kai, Kai, Kai, Kaikaikaikaikaikaikaikaikaikaikaikaikaikai KAI-_

Simmons blinked. Then he inhaled deeply, deciding that he was prepared for what would come next.

“Bloody Mary, Bloody Mary, Bloody-“

“Ooh, are we having a cocktail night?”

He spun around, half-expecting to be facing an angry ghost, though the cheerful voice gave him a hint of who the intruder could be.

“Donut!” he shrieked, realizing his neighbor was in the middle of his living room. “What are you doing there?”

The blonde man just sent him a big smile. “The door wasn’t locked.”

“That wasn’t an invitation,” Simmons argued because it was the truth. However, when he saw Donut’s eyebrows knit closer together, he realized he was being rude.

It wasn’t like he had a big group of friends to choose from. In fact, he didn’t even have a small group.

This was a new place, and apart from the ghost in his apartment, he hadn’t really had come to know anyone that well.

Donut had left an invitation for a Britney-night, but he’d ignored it, naturally, the moment he saw the word karaoke. Maybe the man was here to complain about Simmons’ lack of proper social skills. Or maybe he was here with another invitation.

“Well, they accidently delivered your packages to me!” Donut said which explained why his arms were full of boxes. “It’s probably because I’ve ordered from the firm before. ‘ _Clay Away’_? Ooh, did you order their ‘Homemade Phallos Sculpture’ too?”

“I- I don’t know? I- _Phallos_ is the Greek word for vase, right?”

“I’m just glad to know I’m not the only creative soul in this building,” Donut said as he shoved the packages towards Simmons. “I know Sarge has his tinkering but do explosion really count as art? I mean, _really_?” He blinked, showing off his long eyelashes. “We could have creative evenings together! I really want to show you just what wonders my hands can make! And I want to see your talents too!”

Simmons shifted, the boxes suddenly very heavy in his hands. It was a stupid idea, really, but this week had been full of such things. “I wouldn’t expect too much from me…”

“It’s your first time?” Donut sent him a knowing smile. “Just remember: gentle hands, but a firm rubbing.”

“Of course,” Simmons said, nodding. “Of course…”

* * *

Static played for a few seconds.

Then the pale face appeared, eyes wide open in terror. “Do you see this?!” he asked the camera breathlessly before pointing it at the bedroom wall.

“It’s trying to kill me. It’s so close now, stalking me. It was _in here while I slept_. Look!”

After some fumbling attempts, the camera zoomed towards the framed picture on the wall. It was an older man, skin pale, expression stern and stoic, with the chin raised and the red hair flat against his skull. The medals on his shirt were bigger than his narrowed eyes.

“It’s hanging crooked!” he exclaimed. “There! I- I’d never let it hang like that! It _hasn’t_ hung like that! Not before I went to bed, and then I woke up, and look! It’s _crooked_! I don’t like _crooked_ , I don’t want it _crooked_ , I want it _straight_ , I keep it _straight_ , I am _strai_ -!”

The voice was cut off, as if he’d been muted.

The bedroom was silent. Only a soft breathing sounded in the darkness.

Some shuffling could be heard as the man left the bed. “I’m sorry, dad,” he said and reached out to correct the picture.

* * *

The next attempt was somewhat embarrassing.

“Hello,” Simmons said when the door was opened. He remembered to pull his lips back in a smile, straightening his back.

Tucker looked surprised but not displeased. That was something, at least.

“Hi,” he said. From behind his leg, Junior watched the man on their doormat with big eyes.

“So, uhm.” Simmons scratched the back of his neck. This was a bad idea. This was a very bad, very stupid idea.

But this week was filled with stupidly bad ideas already, so it was too late to back down now.

“Do you have any Christmas decorations?” Simmons asked him, accidently raising his voice in the middle of the question.

Tucker widened his eyes while his kid giggled.

“It’s not Christmas,” Tucker said.

“Yet,” Simmons corrected him. “It’s not Christmas _yet_. I just… want to be prepared. For when it is Christmas.”

“…You know we’re in March right now, right?”

Maybe Simmons had looked pathetic enough, or smart enough, or sad enough.

No matter what, it still resulted in Tucker handing him a giant bundle of tangled Christmas lights. Even now, hours later, Simmons still hadn’t managed to untangle them.

He was sitting in the middle of the living room floor, engulfed by darkness, hands clutching the mess of wires and small lightbulbs.

“Are you there?” Simmons asked into the darkness. His grip on the lights tightened as he waited for the room to be lit up by the colorful decoration.

But-

Nothing happened.

Simmons inhaled deeply and tried again. “Please, are you there?”

Minutes passed.

“Please. Say you are here.” The breathing grew shaky. “My hands are stuck. I can’t get loose. Help.”

* * *

The screen flickered to life.

“I- I hope you can see this. The lamp broke yesterday because _someone_ was throwing a hissy fit.” The man looked even paler in the light of the flashlight. His red eyebrows moved together in a frown. “This- this is my attempt of contact.”

With a shaking hand, he turned the camera away from his face, letting it focus on the Ouija Board on the floor instead. The view flickered again when he settled it on a stack of books.

“This is Simmons. If someone is in this room with me, reveal yourself.” His inhale was shaky. “Are you here?”

Agonizingly slow, the planchette moved towards ‘YES’.

The breathing quickened. “What is your name?” he demanded to know.

There was silence. A few inhales. Exhales. The broken tap dripping in the background.

The planchette didn’t move.

“Is your name… Casper?” he dared to ask. His fingers were trembling from the tension. “Beetlejuice? Boo?”

Another deep inhale could be heard.

“Is your name… Grif?”

The flashlight flickered twice before switching off.

* * *

Simmons had tried. He really had.

But whatever lived in his apartment refused to have a proper, decent discussion, and instead just preferred to throw around stuff and breaking them. So immature. Simmons could feel his anger flare up at the memories.

Despite his attempts, he’d been able to prove nothing.

So for now, the case remained…

Unsolved.

He still had one idea left, however. He’d prepared for it from the beginning, gathering the necessary materials.

Even now, with no other options left, it still didn’t feel right to do it.

But what other choice did he have?

The boxes were still unopened, waiting for him to begin.

The pottery wheel was difficult to collect and caused him a few swears and finger cuts before it was done. The clay, however, had a cooling effect, and Simmons let out a sigh when his fingers dug into it.

Then he let out an even bigger sigh as he realized he’d forgotten to turn on the music.

The tap was still broken, water drops falling from it even after Simmons had finished washing his hands. With a click of a button, he turned on ‘Unchained Melody’ from the original _Ghost_ soundtrack.

The background music didn’t make it easier.

If anything, it just made him feel more comfortable as he sat back down.

The lump of clay was just lying there, waiting to be turned into something. That wouldn’t happen by itself. Time couldn’t make it a masterpiece. Not without Simmons’ hands, his passion, his desire to leave his mark on the world, to face to void and yell ‘I won’t be forgotten!’

At least, that’s what the text on the back of the box had told him.

He hadn’t really bothered to read the manual. He just wanted it over with.

Holding his breath, as if jumping into cold water, and the love song playing behind him, Simmons’ hands caressed each side of the tall lump of clay.

Its touch was cold. Not in the disturbing way, like the chill in his bedroom at midnight, but instead it felt soothingly, like a comfort.

Simmons closed his eyes.

Right now, like this, the apartment felt almost peaceful. The song was playing in the background ( _“Wait for me, wait for me, I'll be coming home, wait for me”)_ , the breeze from the open window was caressing his cheek, the clay was smooth beneath his fingers.

The gunshot echoed.

Simmons’ eyes flew open, and for a split second he expected to be staring at a master piece, a vase made by his hands, perhaps a bit crooked, uneven, unpainted, but at least a work in progress-

But the clay between his hands just looked like a-

“A dildo,” the man next to him said. A trail of blood was falling from the bullet hole in his orange chest plate. “That’s a dildo.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slaps roof of car* this bad boy can fit so many references in it


	5. And They Were Roommates

Simmons stared. Blinked. And when he opened his eyes, this- this man was still there. In front of him. Bleeding on his carpet. “You- You are-“

His jaw dropped when he ran out of words.

As the silence lingered, the man seemed to grow impatient: “Stunning? Amazing? Fat? C’mon, we don’t have all day.”

“I, uh… I wouldn’t have said ‘fat’,” Simmons eventually stuttered. While he might have had the thought – and only because he could see that the man (ghost?) was clearly overweight – he had the manners to keep his mouth shut about it.

The ghost paled even further – giving his skin a grey tint due to his otherwise dark complexion. “Holy crap. You can hear me?”

“I- _yes_.”

“Oh, sweet pineapple vodka, this is- this is _too good_. Wait. Can you see me?” A gloved middle finger was shoved against Simmons’ face. “How many fingers am I holding up?”

“…One. You’re flipping me off.”

“Oh my god.”

The ghost was staring at Simmons, jaw dropped and eyes wide as if… as if he was the one seeing a ghost.

“Is this… Are you real?” Simmons asked him, reaching out to try to touch this- this man- ghost-

His finger just managed to register the sensation of something cold before the man pulled back, forehead shaping a frown just as Simmons touched it. “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Are you a ghost?” Simmons asked him.

“I don’t know.”

“But are you dead?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why are you here?”

“I don’t know.”

“Are you… are you a dark spirit?”

“I don’t know.”

“Do you know anything?” Simmons hissed because at this point, he seemed to know more about the situation than the supernatural being himself.

The man just shrugged with the most careless and clueless expression on his face that Simmons had ever seen. “Meh,” he said.

“How- how can you not know?” Simmons demanded. “You’re- you’re the one who’s- whatever you are.”

“Should I be offended by that sentence or…?”

Raising his head, Simmons took the time to inhale once before he dared to ask another question: “Who… are you?”

During the wave of questions that’d hit the man just before his face had remained expressionless – bored, if anything. But now his dark brows actually furrowed in thoughtfulness. “I, uh…”

“You don’t know?”

“I…” His eyes darted around while he bit his lip, looking as if he was trying to remember the right answer for a physics test. Simmons almost felt bad for him.

He shifted nervously as he tried to find the courage to speak out loud the clues he’d tried to collect the last weeks. “I… I think your name is Grif.”

Recognition lit up his eyes immediately, pulling up the corners of his mouth. “Yeah, that’s me!”

“I, uh, don’t know your first name.”

The frown returned to his face again. “Me neither. But I know you’re Dick!”

“Because I told you so. With the board, right?”

“Whatever,” the man said, rolling his eyes and crossing his arms. “It still counts.”

Simmons couldn’t help but let out a dry snort. “Congratulations. You officially know _one_ thing.”

The man looked perplexed – and then his facial features dropped into a scowl. It looked as if he might hold up his finger again.

He didn’t have the chance before Simmons suddenly doubled over, heaving after air as laughter escaped from his throat. It was wild and raw and had a pleasant, sweet taste to it. He couldn’t explain why, but it made him think of tropical fruits, of freshly made juice.

He straightened his back with a sharp inhale. “Oh god, I’m losing my mind, aren’t I?”

“Probably. Doesn’t matter to me – it’s fun to watch.”

“You- you’re a ghost,” Simmons said.

“Probably.”

“You need to leave.”

“Why?”

“Because,” Simmons spread out his arms for emphasis, “You are a ghost.”

He seemed to think about that for a moment before he smacked his lips and said, “That sounds racist.”

“I- _Race isn’t involved in this_ ,” Simmons hissed back.

“You are discriminating me!”

“You are bleeding on my carpet!” he yelled, stomping a foot against the floor, hoping he wouldn’t get a noise complain from his downstairs neighbor.

Slowly, he tilted his head to follow Simmons’ glance. His eyebrows were raised when he noticed the red drops falling from his chest wound. “Oh,” he said, mouth becoming a circle. His fingers were pressed against the armor plate so the tips could be stained red. “Oh shit, I’m bleeding, I’m dying, I- Wait.” He froze, widened eyes focused on Simmons. “It doesn’t hurt.”

He could feel the clay slowly drying on his fingers. Simmons flexed them carefully as he tried to think through the situation. It was… Well, due to his latest research he’d call himself a semi-expert on ghosts, and he could begin to connect the details.

The ghost was confused because it was a lost spirit.

The wound didn’t hurt because it was dead.

It was here because it had a connection to it – it’d been his home.

The ghost suddenly narrowed its eyes. “Did you shoot me?” he asked, sounding more annoyed than scared.

“No!” Simmons exclaimed. “Why would I ever do that-?”

“Oh good.” He flicked some blood off his hand with zero care for the blanket. “Fuck, I just thought a fucking nerd had killed me-” He trailed off, words stopping abruptly. “Oh shit. I’m dead.” The frown grew deeper and darker as he stared at his own hands, looking more shocked at his own existence than Simmons felt.

“Yeah… I think that’s the whole point of being a ghost.” For a moment he almost felt sad for the man due to his almost sorrowful expression. Being told you were dead wasn’t exactly an easy message to receive. Not a common one, either. But then Simmons remembered the open fridge door and the shattered penny jar and the broken ceiling light, and suddenly his pity was all gone. “You need to leave.”

“ _You_ need to leave,” the ghost spat at him, sticking his tongue out in the process.

Simmons’ jaw dropped again. “No, I don’t, why would I even do that?”

“’cause is _my_ apartment?”

“No, it isn’t,” Simmons said, shaking his head. “It’s _mine_. I pay the rent. It’s my name outside.”

“Well, it’s not when it’s my apartment.”

“It’s my name! _My_ apartment!” He stepped away from the pottery wheel, not caring about the flakes of dried clay that fell from his fingers. He marched towards the door, opening it. “Look.”

It only required one step outside the apartment, standing on the doormat and spinning around to see the name letters S I M M O N S on the sign on the wall.

Simmons watched his own name in satisfaction, nodding smugly before calling for the ghost to admit its mistake, “Can’t you see-?”

The ghost was following him out of the apartment but had only managed to set one foot on the doormat before his entire body faded away, like dust caught by the wind.

* * *

Later, when the disgraceful lump of clay had ended in the trashcan and when Simmons had taken two pills to deal with his headache and when he’d decided to rest in front of the lit computer screen – the ghost appeared again.

Simmons checked his Basebook account for the first time in days. A friend request from Donut was still blinking in at the top of his dashboard, but he hadn’t answered it yet. He could reach out to Donut, ask for more information but-

It’d been so easy to type the name Grif, and a few moments later he’d found the right account. The profile picture matched the photo he’d found in the garage, and he recognized the long black hair. He looked better in the picture than as a ghost. Less… dead and pale and bloody. With normal clothes instead of battle armor.

He didn’t… look that bad. Still chubby and there was a stain on his t-shirt, but still. His smile was warm.

“Did you just send me a friend request?”

Simmons jumped in his seat, biting his tongue in the process. He winced, and when he looked over his shoulder, the ghost was right there, as if he’d never vanished in the first time. “I, uh… Your first name is Dexter,” Simmons said, gesturing towards the text on the screen.

“Oh yeah, I totally knew that,” he said, shrugging but he couldn’t hide the relief in his eyes. It lasted a second, then his expression turned smug. “You know I can’t accept your request, right?”

Simmons hadn’t even realized he’d clicked the request button. “Oh…”

“Oh man, do you hate Donut too?” Grif said, sounding strangely excited as he pointed at the unanswered request on Simmons’ screen.

“No!” Simmons said, not even sure why he felt the need to defend himself. Maybe it was just something from how he’d been raised, how his mother had always talked about manners, about how to act. “I… just haven’t been on Basebook for a while.”

To prove his point, he clicked ‘accept’.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Grif chuckled behind him.

“Why?”

The question was answered a moment later when the message ticked in.

Simmons’ eyes widened at the sight. “That’s a lot of smileys. And this one is moving.”

“That’s a Jif.”

He wasn’t quite sure if he’d heard him right. In fact, he shouldn’t even have heard anything – he was talking to a ghost, after all, something that by the rules of logic shouldn’t exist.

“… _Gif_ ,” he corrected the ghost. “It’s called a _Gif_. Graphics Interchange Format. _Graphics_ has a hard G, Gif has a hard G. It’s logic.”

He then blinked, realizing there was no logic involved in this situation.

A loud noise informed them that he’d received a second message.

“That’s Donut inviting you over for _G_ in and tonic,” Grif noted dryly, making sure to mispronounce the word. “With a hard G. ‘cause logic.”

“Don’t be an ass,” Simmons sneered, and to follow his own advice, he immediately replied back to Donut.

_RICHARD SIMMONS: [Sent 07:03pm] That sounds great, Donut!_

“I can literally hear the sarcasm in that message,” Grif just said.

Frowning, Simmons decided to send a second message.

_RICHARD SIMMONS: [Sent 07:04] :D_

 A loud snort came from Grif’s throat, blood spilling on his lips though he seemed oblivious to the fact. “He’s gonna think you’re flirting with him.”

“No, he is not,” Simmons grumbled as he continued to type.

_RICHARD SIMMONS: [Sent 07:06] That Grif who lived here before, he’s dead, right?_

_FRANKLIN DELANO DONUT: [Sent 07:06] Yeah_

_FRANKLIN DELANO DONUT: [Sent 07:06] :(_

_RICHARD SIMMONS: [Sent 07:07] How did he die?_

_RICHARD SIMMONS: [Sent 07:08] Just curious._

“And not morbid at all,” Grif muttered under his breath. He was so close now, as if he was resting his head on Simmons’ shoulder to get a better look at the screen. Simmons swore he could almost feel his warmth, but that would be impossible, of course.

_FRANKLIN DELANO DONUT: [Sent 07:09] In the war. very sad_

_FRANKLIN DELANO DONUT: [Sent 07:09] Did you know him?_

There were no smileys this time, and somehow Simmons felt as if he was walking on thin ice. He decided to be honest.

_RICHARD SIMMONS: [Sent 07:11] I saw Sarge’s picture in the garage. He was on it._

“You are such a stalker,” the ghost practically cooed at him. He seemed way too happy about the fact.

Simmons felt his cheeks burn. “Shut up.”

_FRANKLIN DELANO DONUT: [Sent 07:12] You probably shouldnt bring up grif when sarge can hear it_

“Why?” Grif asked out loud, speaking Simmons’ thought. His eyes were glued to the screen, awaiting an answer as Simmons’ typed and sent his question.

A second later, Donut answered it.

_FRANKLIN DELANO DONUT: [Sent 07:14] You dont make old people upset_

“Oh, please give Sarge a heart-attack,” Grif said, smiling but it wasn’t as warm as the one in the picture. “It’d make my day.”

“Don’t be grim,” Simmons said. He hadn’t talked much with Sarge, but he seemed like a reasonable, respectable and just a tiny bit crazy old man.

Well, considering he owned a haunted building, Simmons couldn’t exactly blame him.

“I’m a ghost,” Grif just replied. “Apparently. That's already pretty grim.”

Closing his laptop carefully, Simmons turned around in his seat to face the ghost. “Please leave?” he asked, already sounding defeated.

“Turns out I can’t,” Grif just replied, and Simmons knew he was speaking the truth. He still remembered how the shape of the man had suddenly vanished. “Huh. Seems like _my_ apartment doesn’t want _me_ to leave.”

Simmons bit back a bitter reply (the ghost was wrong, after all, and Simmons had to prove it to him – just not today) and pulled out his phone instead, taking a picture before the ghost could object.

“Rude much,” Grif said after the room had been lit up for a brief second by the flash.

Simmons didn’t reply as he held his phone in despair – his screen only showed an empty living room. No ghost. No blood on the carpet.

 “Goddamnit,” he said as he considered whether to put his phone away. Picture evidence didn’t work, obviously, but maybe he should just call 911 at this point.

But he figured they’d just put him in a mental hospital, if he was lucky.

“Are we having pizza tonight?” Grif suddenly asked loudly, pulling him out of his thoughts.

“No,” he replied automatically. “No, we are not, because do you know how much oil goes into a pizza? I just had it last week and- that was you, wasn’t it? _You_ made me want pizza.”

The ghost didn’t even try to deny that he was the cause of all the weird happenings and feelings in the apartment. “Everyone wants pizza, Simmons,” he said, crossing his arms. “Everyone. Deep inside, they want it. I know it. You know it.”

Simmons’ stomach decided to betray him by rumbling in that exact moment. He’d been so busy proving his supernatural experience, it hadn’t left much time for healthy meals. “You can’t even eat,” he protested weakly.

That, somehow, made the ghost look more upset than when he’d realize he was dead. “Wow. You are being so rude. So-“

“I’m-“

“Mean. Bad.” Grif rolled his eyes before leaning so close to Simmons’ face that he could see the dried blood in the corner of his lips. “You are a very bad roommate, Simmons.”

Suppressing the urge to shudder, Simmons declared firmly, “We are not roommates.” 

* * *

“I don’t want you in my room at night,” Simmons said as they wrote down their new rules for co-living in a 640 square feet apartment now shared between the living and the dead. Simmons had tried to look up online if anyone else had been in a familiar situation but that hadn’t been the case.

So that left them to work it out – which meant Simmons writing down house rules while Grif shrugged in the corner. He was still sulking after Simmons had decided to eat two apples for dinner.

“And if you break more of my stuff I’ll- I’ll-“

“You’ll what?” Grif snorted. “Kick my ass? I don’t have a physical body and I have more muscles than you.”

Simmons decided that his dignity would prefer if he didn’t comment on that, so he kept his mouth shut. “I’ll find a way to get rid of you in the morning,” Simmons just muttered as he signed the contract and realized Grif wouldn’t be able to hold the pen anyway. “This isn’t permanent.”

“Are you kicking me out in the street?” Grif gasped in fake horror. “People talk about kicking the dying, but you are cruel enough to kick the dead-“

“Shut up.”

“Do you have no heart, no mercy for your fellow man?”

“You’re dead,” Simmons said loudly. “It’s not like there is anything I can do for you.”

In the silence, the shuffling of the paper seemed so loud as he collected the contract. He kept his head low as he turned to head for his bedroom, ready to get this day over with.

“You really chose the wrong apartment, huh. Not only do you have freaking Donut as your neighbor and fucking Sarge as landlord, but ya gotta get stuck with a ghost as well. Seems like you drew the short stick.”

That made Simmons freeze in the middle of a step. “Well,” he said slowly, swallowing the saliva in his mouth. “They were your neighbor and landlord, too. And you- you died, so I’m definitely more lucky than you.”

With that final word, he turned again, but Grif called out for him as he reached the doorway. “Wait, if you don’t want me messing around and giving you nightmares and breaking stuff and shit, you could at least keep me entertained.”

“I can leave the tv on,” Simmons suggested – then winced at the thought of his upcoming electricity bill. “Or the radio.”

“Nah, I’m just gonna mess with Bitters again,” Grif said, grinning. Before Simmons could ask how, Grif crouched down and simply slammed a hand through the floorboards. The lower part of his arm simply disappeared, only the limb above the elbow visible. “Look; no hands!”

Simmons could imagine the hand reaching down below the floor, waving at whatever poor soul who lived beneath him. For their sake, Simmons desperately hoped they were asleep.

Grif was still messing with the floor, grinning, when Simmons closed the door to be alone in his bedroom. “I’m getting rid of you tomorrow,” he promised loud enough for the ghost to hear.


	6. Oh My God, They Were Roommates

_There is blood in his mouth, in his nostrils. He can’t breathe, everything tastes like metal. It feels like the helmet is collapsing on itself, choking him. There’s no air, no air, his chest won’t move, lungs burning, he wants to breathe, he can’t-_

_Death is more glorious on the TV. They didn’t say it’d be like this, dark, slow, he wants to_ breathe _._

_A squeeze on his hand, he can just feel it, the only thing existing now, everything is so dark._

_It’s gone. He can’t feel it, can’t feel-_

_Light._

_Nothing._

* * *

“Get out of my room!” Simmons yelled as he sat up straight in his bed. The sweat was running down his back, clinging to his already wet t-shirt.

Grif froze like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar. His faint silhouette could be seen near the closed door, and he let out a surprised shriek at Simmons’ exclamation.

“I didn’t do anything!”

“I told you, you don’t get to go in the bedroom! Out! Shoo!”

For a moment it seemed to work. Looking like a kicked puppy, Grif began to retreat until he vanished through the door.

Simmons had a second to collect himself before a gloved hand reached through the wooden material, holding up a finger. “I just want you to know that I’m bored.”

“That’s not my problem!”

“Yes, it is! Because flicking a light switch on and off can only be fun for one hour!”

“ _Stop touching my stuff!”_

The ghost – the entirety of him – floated back into the room. “But I’m boooooored.”

“Go watch tv!”

“I did! And I think I may have broken it. Your tv sucks!”

Simmons buried his head against the pillow in frustration. Maybe, if he was lucky, he was just dying of some unknown illness and this was all a crazy fever dream. But he doubted he’d be that lucky. “So what do you want now?!”

“I want to sleep!”

“Then go to sleep!”

“I can’t! I don’t have a body!”

Blood was still trickling down his broken armor, landing in a pool before his feet. The color reminded Simmons of his dream: the blood, the taste-

“But _you_ can sleep!” Grif pointed out in joy, and in a flash he was hovering above Simmons’ bed.

Simmons stared in shock as the ghost proceeded to settle down next to him. The mattress was so small that he supposed Grif was practically lying on top of him. Or _in_ him. However that worked.

He opened his mouth to protest, but then the smell hit his nostrils. It was familiar, comforting, but he couldn’t quite put a finger on it.

And then he noticed Grif's warmth. Not a burning sensation or anything that strong, but like feeling the comforting pressure of a cat lying on top of you, heat seeping through the blanket.

“What are you doing?” Simmons whispered.

“Getting comfortable.” He couldn’t see Grif any longer but he could hear his sigh of relief. “Man, I’ve missed this.”

“I thought death was like eternal sleep,” Simmons huffed as he forced himself to close his eyes to continue sleeping. He knew better than to try to shove a ghost out of his bed.

“Hah, I wish.”

* * *

He woke up feeling more rested than he thought possible. When he stretched his arms, none of his joints cracked, and it took him a full minute before he remembered where he was. Who he was. And the fact that he had work waiting for him.

Before Simmons could push himself up from the bed to march towards his computer, Grif appeared in front of him, smiling and bleeding. “Oh that felt gooood.”

“But you can’t sleep.”

“Yeah, but you slept and I kinda, I don’t know, feel it?”

“That sounds creepy and borderline criminal.”

Grif just shook his head, crimson drops falling in the process. “It’s like- have you ever opened a chocolate bar and inhaled the smell before biting it? It’s like you can almost taste it. It’s like that. It feels – _almost_. You get what I mean?”

For a moment Simmons thought he did. But then he remembered all the bad horror films, about possessing, about sucking the life out of the living, and he suppressed a shudder. “Stop inhaling me.”

“So when you sleep, it’s like I almost sleep. And if you eat waffles, I bet-“ He suddenly blinked, lips creeping upwards in a sly smile. “Simmons, don’t you feel like waffles?”

“No.”

“But-“

“No. Leave me alone.”

“But waffles!”

Simmons sat down heavily, holding up one of his case files as if trying to shield his face. “I have to work!” he hissed, and it was about then that he realized he was currently having an argument. With a ghost. That shouldn’t exist. “What the fuck am I doing?” he muttered, slamming his forehead against the desk.

“Waffles!” Grif answered helpfully. 

* * *

An hour later, Simmons was chewing on a newly baked waffle. Grif was staring at him intensely, eyes widened and unmoving.

“Isn’t it good?” he asked, licking his lips.

“No,” Simmons lied. He wished it had been the truth, but he couldn’t deny to himself how pleasant it was to start his day on a full stomach. Better than the cold cup of tea he would usually call breakfast while he worked on today’s reports.

Now his entire mouth tasted like cinnamon, and the inner parts of his body felt all warm, and his head was all clear, and it was annoyingly pleasant. “How do I get rid of you?”

“I don’t know,” Grif said, running a finger across the empty plate in the futile hope of catching any of the syrup. “The internet’s your friend. Unless it’s like social media. They’ll eat you alive.”

Yesterday’s conversations had proven that Grif literally knew nothing about anything, so his suggestion was probably the right way to go. Simmons ended up turning on his computer with a sigh, ignoring the piles of work waiting for him to do some quick research instead.

“It says I should ask you to leave. Please leave.”

“Nope. Would you look at that – it didn’t work.”

He leaned closer to the screen, squinting. “Or I could use salt. Or prayers.”

“Now you are being mean,” Grif said, floating away from him. “Oh, and you have visitors, by the way.”

“What do you-“

The doorbell rang.

Simmons sent a glance towards Grif’s smug smile, but then carefully approached the door, fearing the worst.

“Hi! I’m Palomo, your friendly neighborhood ghost hunter, and I am gathering witnesses for a Ufo sighting last night. Did you by any chance catch a glimpse of the flying sausage – no, wait, I mean saucer.”

The teenager was looking up at him with bright eyes, a notepad in his hand.

He cleared his throat before continuing, “So, uh, do you have any witness statements I can write down?”

“…Did you hire him or something?” Grif asked.

“No,” Simmons said.

“Are you sure?” Palomo asked him, face falling in disappointment. “It was right here, outside the Eastern window, around uhm, 10.20 pm?”

Looking over his shoulder, Simmons made sure that Grif was, in fact, standing right behind him. With an amused expression, the ghost was looking at Palomo.

And Palomo couldn’t see him.

So Simmons was in fact the only one going insane.

“I saw nothing,” Simmons said firmly.

“So… did you throw a pizza out of the window?” He recognized Bitters who was slowly walking the stairs to stand behind Palomo, tilting his head towards him. “’cause we found a massacred pizza outside, and I think such a murder is more important than an Ufo sighting. Aliens are in the news, like every day.”

“I’ve always liked Bitters,” Grif said calmly, leaning closer to his ear despite the fact that no one else could hear him. “He has his priorities straight.”

“I, uh… I don’t even like pizza!” Simmons ended up shrieking in a weak attempt to defend himself from the accusation.

The two teenagers gasped – and Grif as well.

“Wow, Simmons,” the ghost said. “I think I’m divorcing you now.”

“I hate you,” Simmons said.

And then he realized that he could still be heard by the teenagers who – judging from their expressions – were less than happy about Simmons’ last comment. Palomo’s lower lip had begun to quiver and Bitters’ scowl just darkened.

“You know, you should just yell ‘Get off my lawn!’ already and embrace your inner middle-aged bitter old man,” Grif suggested.

Giving in to the despair, Simmons yelled, “Sorry!” before he closed the door with a smack right in front of their faces.

“Welp, that was a catastrophe. And a shame. Bitters is cool. We met at the vending machine, actually. Always nice with a feisty competition about the marshmallow bar.”

Simmons just stared at his own hands in horror, wondering if losing his mind would be a slow or quick form of torture.

“Mmhmmm, now I want that marshmallow bar. Simmons, go get it for me.”

“No.” He sank to his knees, trying to overcome the fact that he was slowly but surely being shunned by the society.

“ _Pleeease_.”

“No,” he said again, firmer this time. “I don’t want to. ‘sides, the machine’s broken anyway.”

“Huh?” Grif frowned, finally wiping the last remains of smugness from his face. “It wasn’t when I left."

“Maybe you’ve been gone for a long time,” Simmons suggested, more bitterly than he intended to.

Grif faded away then, with a puzzled expression. He first returned in the evening, and Simmons couldn’t help but feel relieved when the ghost was suddenly hovering near the fridge again.

He wasn’t sure why, though.

Maybe it was just better to see the ghost haunting your apartment instead of being fucked over by a poltergeist.

* * *

Grif smelled like ginger cookies. It took days before Simmons could finally name the smell that had been lingering in the room for days. It was strongest at night, when Grif would attempt to tuck himself in, in order to _almost_ -sleep.

Simmons’ eyelids would grow heavier, and he nuzzled his face against the pillow, and suddenly it would hit him – his mother’s homemade cookies, and it felt warmth and nice and safe, and Simmons would fall asleep with a smile on his face.

* * *

The salt didn’t work on Grif. That much was proven when he urged Simmons to make a bowl of popcorn for their movie night.

“Extra big. With butter. And salt.”

“Stop bossing me around. I’m the one in control. I have a body.”

“Fuck you too. More salt.”

They ended up binging the worst horror movies they could find, making a competition out of pointing out the most awful special effects.

It ended up with a tie between the glitching vampire fang and the werewolf with no shadow.

“Maybe it’s a ghost,” Grif suggested. “I have no shadow. Ghost werewolf. Next blockbuster hit.”

“The fangless vampire is better.”

“No, he is pathetic.” Grif wiped some blood off his forehead before turning his eyes away from the screen. “More popcorn.”

“No. With all this fat you’ll be giving me a heart attack.”

“Yeah, I think that’s what ghosts are supposed to do.” He sent him a crooked smile, jumping in his seat as he continued, “But seriously. I have to show you something.”

“No.”

“C’mon,” the ghost whined. “It’s important. I’ve been practicing it all day.”

And eventually Simmons caved in, and doing as he was told, he placed the bag of popcorn in the microwave, closing the door.

“Okay. Step back, and let the master work his magic!” Grif told him. His expression changed, then; narrowed eyes focused on the microwave, a drop of sweat mixing with the blood and then-

The button clicked, as if pressed with an invisible force. With a low hum, the microwave turned on, the bag of popcorn slowly being rotated in the light.

“See! I did that!”

Grif sent him another smile; a big and proud one, and Simmons couldn’t help but return it.

* * *

Despite slowly losing his mind, Simmons couldn’t afford to completely lose his touch with reality. There was work to be done, reports to be written.

Grif would whine whenever he sat in front of the computer for too long, telling him to watch porn instead.

He would first leave when Simmons would turn on the television to let him watch his favorite cop show.

“You’re a pain,” Simmons hissed at him, trying to focus despite the sound of police sirens.

“Pray the bae away, Simmons.”

“I hate you so much.”

* * *

He would work until the headache became too much – the numbers in front of him and the light from the screen only worsening it by the second.

Until Grif would appear behind him, asking if he was done with the nerd work yet, and the headache would miraculously disappear, like an instant Panodil.

The workload became lighter, though. The pile of papers becoming smaller and smaller every day, leaving more room for movie nights and waffle baking. And board games, too, as Simmons tried his best to teach him chess.

But Grif would forget how many moves a pawn could take (or maybe he was just cheating) and halfway into the game he would become too tired to move the pieces.

“This game sucks,” he said sourly when his bishop only shook slightly.

“I can move them for you,” Simmons offered, knowing that he was so close to a checkmate and he couldn’t allow Grif to back down now. “Where do you want to go?”

“To the vending machine. I want that marshmallow bar. We have to steal it before Bitters does, c’mon Simmons!”

* * *

One day the doorbell rang, and Lopez was standing on his doormat, holding a pile of papers. “Estos son tuyos.” [These are yours.]

“Oh my god, is that Lopez? Is he still Sarge’s slave?”

Simmons, being used to the constant talking, had no trouble ignoring the ghost, focusing on the janitor instead. “Hi, uh, Lopez. What can I help you with?”

“Estos. Tuyos.” [These. Yours.]

The papers that was shoved into Simmons’ hands were covered with dirt and tried mud. When Simmons took a closer look, he noticed that one of them even had a boot print, as if they’d been stepped on.

First then did he recognize the actual text of the document. “These- these are mine.”

“Sí."

“Why are they…” He trailed off, realizing the files looked like they’d been lying on the streets. Which was exactly what had happened. Which could mean one thing only.

He inhaled deeply, forcing himself to send the man a polite smile. “Thank you,” he said and closed the door.

Lopez remained where he stood, shifting once, and then through the thin walls of the apartment, he heard, “ _DID YOU THROW MY FILES OUT OF THE WINDOW? – I DON’T CARE IF I SEEM NICER, YOU CANNOT DO THAT. -WHY? BECAUSE THEY WERE MY FILES AND YOU ARE NOT ALLOWED TO TOUCH MY STUFF. I ALREADY TOLD YOU THAT. -I DON’T CARE. WE ARE NOT HAVING WAFFLES FOR DINNER.”_

“Bueano. Otro loco,” [Great. Another lunatic.] Lopez said before walking down the stairs, expression never changing once.

* * *

Living with the ghost did prove to have some advantages, though. Grif taught him all his knowledge of the apartment; how to properly close the rusty oven door, how to kick the wall twice before turning on the shower in order to have warm water, how to avoid the wooden boards that would always give you splinters.

And one day Simmons opened his eyes and Grif was standing in front of him, wearing a Hawaiian shirt instead of the broken orange armor. The blood was gone too, his face all healed and happy.

“What’s that about?” Simmons asked him, blinking, trying to tear his eyes away from the sight.

Grif just shrugged. “I dunno. Just happened while you slept. But I look good, right?” He sent Simmons a flirting smile, no doubt trying to make him look stupid by causing him to blush.

Simmons raised his chin, hoping that Grif’s attempt had failed, though the burning sensation in his cheeks said otherwise. “No comments,” he said dryly, wrinkling his nose when he smelled ginger again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I literally crammed weeks of fluff and happiness into this chapter because plot is coming up next and I'm excited. Can you believe it? Plot.


	7. That's My Emotional Support Human

Life with a ghost was surprisingly steady.

It wasn’t that hard to get used to.

The nightmares were the worst part, of course. They left Simmons with a feeling of absolute terror, as if he could still taste the blood in his mouth. But then Grif would just sink deeper into the bed with him, leaving an aura filled with warmth and calm. Like a radiator. An old one that made annoying noises but helped make the apartment livable nonetheless.

They made a deal.

Simmons would continue to eat a proper breakfast every day, and Grif would stop throwing his work in the bin. The movie nights continued, but they didn’t order pizza every day.

Grif would speak about food most of the time. For a dead person he seemed oddly cheerful. But Simmons preferred that over a moaning ghost.

He only dared to asked Grif about his previous life once. Mainly because it seemed rather rude to dig into someone’s death. That would be like pouring salt into a wound.

And Simmons preferred Grif chill and whole and not bleeding on his blanket.

But then the nightmares changed. Instead of the usual pain and the taste of blood in his mouth, the entire dream was just Grif shouting – no, _pleading_ – over and over: “I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, I don’t want to go, _they can’t make me_!”

And as he woke up his first thought was whether or not Grif was aware of these nightmares. The screams had been horrible to hear, but the horror would only double if it was your own terrified voice pleading for mercy.

In order to shake off the feeling of having a gun to his head, Simmons marched into the living room, dragging his blanket with him and turned on the tv.

Grif came floating after him a moment later; his hair messy despite not actually having slept. Maybe more of his personality was just starting to show.

“Nice,” he said as he watched Simmons search through different movie titles. “Horror marathon.”

“Shut up,” Simmons said before choosing _Ghost_. It was the movie that had started it all; it was only fair to bring it back.

“Urgh, not a romance.” Grif’s eyes flickered towards Simmons, lips pulled upwards into a smile. “Just what sort of dream were you having?”

“Nightmares. Again. Your fault,” Simmons said, leaning back in his couch, ready to see a happy couple be torn apart.

“So… did the clay scene turn you on or…?” Grif tilted his head at Simmons’ silence. “Alright. Not in the mood. But it still looked like a penis, by the way.”

Simmons didn’t answer.

They watched the couple embrace, and something twisted in his stomach, forcing his lips to open and mouth to ask: “Did you… leave somebody behind?”

“What?”

“I know you had a sister- since you’re a ghost, something, no, some _one_ must be keeping you here, and maybe she-“

“Kai,” Grif whispered before vanishing.

He appeared again in the morning, no memory of what had happened in the middle of the night. He just asked for waffles as usual.

Simmons decided not to bring up Kai again and comforted himself with the fact that at least Grif hadn’t begun to bleed.

* * *

The second interruption was a bit more sudden. Louder, too.

It was a siren that cut through all the walls, making Simmons drop the plate of waffles he was carrying.

“Hey,” Grif said, kicking at the pieces of porcelain, “at least I’m not the one breaking stuff this time.”

“What is that?!” Simmons shrieked, eyes widened as he spun around, trying to spot the fire. “Is it a smoke alarm?!”

“Nah, it’s just Sarge’s stupid alarm in case the building is about to collapse.” Grif looked up from the trashed waffles, letting out a sigh of displeasure, but as he turned his head, Simmons was already gone. He’d left the door open in his hurry, and Grif could hear him practically stumbling down the stair steps.

Grif tried to follow but the moment he touched the doorway that strange sensation of being pulled around the waist kept him back. He stopped just before his foot could leave the apartment.

With his breath stuck in his throat, Grif backed away until it didn’t feel as if he was falling apart at the seams.

* * *

Simmons was pretty sure this was the end of the world, so he was surprised when so few of the building’s residents had actually left their apartments to meet outside the entrance. Breathlessly, he turned his head to recognize the faces: Donut was waving at him, and Tucker was next to him with Junior on his shoulders. Then came Palomo and Bitters who had their heads turned towards Sarge.

Lopez was standing behind the older man, looking as despairing as always. Maybe today he had a reason for his gloom.

Sarge definitely didn’t look happy. He huffed before explaining the situation. “Before we start, I feel it fair to let you know that the building is not about to suddenly and inexplicably collapse.”

“No shit,” Bitters muttered under his breath. “It didn’t the last four time you activated the stupid thing.”

Sarge must not have heard him since he continued, “But it might as well be with the constant banging and yelling and unlawfully noise pollution! Any volume equivalent of the one of an explosion can only take place in the basement; the community rules says so, and so do I, and that’s the end of that!”

Slowly, Bitters raised a hand. “So we’re here because someone is making noise?”

“It began with the Britney Spears nights,” Sarge said, inhaling deeply, “And while I don’t to make this me against the music, there’s only so far I can allow this rebellion. You cannot go ‘Oops, I did it again’, and expect to be forgiven every time. Ya get it? If you’re thinking ‘am I a sinner?’, let me tell you one thing – you are.” After an exhale, he closed his eyes and grumbled under his breath with a shaking fist, “She does that to us.”

“He just mentioned like seven Spear songs in two sentences,” Matthews exclaimed in awe.

“How would you know?” Bitters spat back at him.

“So,” Sarge said, crossing his arms. “Who will be the first one to admit their sins?”

“I hear strange noises coming from Simmons’ apartment,” Bitters said without missing a beat. His dark eyes were locked with Simmons’, narrowed into a suspicious glare.

For a moment Simmons was sure that Grif was still with him. A part of his brain went ‘ _That little traitor!’_ but he managed to stop himself before speaking the thought out loud. He bit the inside of his cheek, wondering how long Bitters had hated him.

Sarge looked up at him. “Is that true?” he asked, almost in a sigh. “It’s always the newcomer…”

“If we have to open our hearts,” Donut said, wringing his hands while his cheeks turned red, “I must admit that I haven’t strayed from sin.”

Behind him, Tucker clasped his hands on top of Junior’s ears.

“I’ve had visits in the late of the night,” Donut admitted with a straight back. “And I do not believe we were quiet.”

“Oh god,” Bitters said.

“In fact, I think we might have been a bit loud.”

“Shit.”

“And there might have been screaming,” Donut sighed, somehow still keeping a smile on his face. “And strange bumping noises.”

At this point, Bitters and Palomo were both grimacing and Simmons could no longer feel his face.

“Donut,” Sarge said with his finger pressed against the long scar running down his forehead, “if you have to kill a man, do it in the basement. It will also make it easier to hide the body.”

“But I wasn’t killing Doc, Sarge! We were fu-“

“Kids are present,” Tucker grumbled.

“-mbling our way through a yoga routine! I’ve been having such back aches lately, and Doc offered to help me out! But with his day job he can only arrive late in the evening and I suppose we haven’t done a good job of quieting ourselves down. I’m so sorry.”

And that was the end of that meeting.

They all returned to their apartments with burning cheeks and no peace in mind.

“I don’t think Sarge has ever looked this pained before,” Tucker said as he followed Simmons up the stairs with Junior sleeping on his back. “And he’s been in the war.”

Simmons froze, resulting in his knee smashing against the edge of the stairstep. He held back a groan of pain and instead he asked in surprise, “He has?!”

“Yeah, like, a lot of times. The dude claims he came into existence from a grenade explosion.”

Simmons considered that, and while he quickly came to the understanding that the statement was highly unlikely, it didn’t change the fact that Sarge apparently was a soldier. “…Did he go to war with Grif?”

“First afterwards. I mean, he fought a lot of times before Grif too. He was scarred when I met him, if that counts for anything. I think he’s spent more time pulling trigger than fixing broken door handles, at least. I guess this is his retirement life or something? He still went back to war right after Grif was drafted. Pretty sure he signed up.” Tucker pressed Junior closer to himself as his expression darkened. “Not that it mattered. Sarge was the only one who came home, and Kai moved after that.”

“Do you know where she went?”

“Nah, she didn’t tell anyone. After Grif, well, I don’t think she wants to be found.”

Tucker’s explanation brought back the cold knot in Simmons’ stomach.

But then he stepped into his apartment and Grif was there to greet him, all smiling but somewhat frantic as he scolded Simmons for just leaving him behind.

Simmons really didn’t mind being called an idiot as Grif pressed himself as close to him as he could.

* * *

Grif was cool with Simmons living in the apartment. It’d turned out to be a good deal for both of them. Simmons no longer looked like he’d fall over from stress at any given moment, and through Simmons he managed to feel more… sturdy. More real.

It was difficult to describe, but the most important thing was that it felt _good_. That was enough for Grif to never let go of Simmons again.

But the floating sparkplug in the middle of the living room – yeah, Grif definitely hadn’t invited that thing inside.

“Oh my god, I finally found you!”

“Uhm….” Grif tilted his head, watching Simmons who was leaned over his laptop, apparently unaware of the strange light source in their home. Gathering his courage, Grif faced it again. “Are you talking to me?” Was the thing even supposed to be able to talk?

“Of course I am!” it said despite not having a mouth. It was just a ball of light and now it was flying close enough to blind him. “It’s not like there are any other dead people in the room!” The voice sounded female – and too cheerful for his liking – but it didn’t change it looked like an exploded light bulb. It flew towards Simmons, then quickly raced back to him. “Nope! I just checked and you’re the only one! And that’s good because I’m already waaaaaaaay too late with your case!”

Grif took a step backwards, noticing that Simmons was looking up from his screen now. “Uhhh…Who are you?”

“I’m Huggins!” it said, flying in a small circle again, like a dog chasing its own tail. Then it stopped right against his nose. “And you’re Grif! _Dexter_ Grif! I know what because I’ve been chasing the wrong Grif for weeks!”

“I, uh…” Holding up a hand to shield his eyes, Grif decided that cowardice was the right way to deal with all of this. “Simmons, help!”

Immediately, Simmons jumped in his seat. “What’s happening?!” he said, stumbling towards him. His eyes darted around but he didn’t react to the unwanted light source – meaning that he couldn’t see her.

Well, shit.

“Shoo, shoo!” Grif said, waving his hand as if it could blow the thing away.

“Don’t be dramatic!” it said, basically tsking at him. “I’ve flown like halfway around the globe for you! And that’s a long way! I’m _tired_ and you’re the one whining! Did you make it so difficult on purpose?”

“Begone, demon spawn, leave me the fuck alone!”

Simmons grabbed his arm – well, tried to at least, since his fingers went right through him. “Grif, what’s going on?” he asked, eyes and voice alarmed.

“There’s a fucking flying sparkplug in the middle of the room and it’s speaking to me!”

Simmons’ mouth fell open; either in disbelief or he was just searching for the right reaction. Grif wasn’t sure what it would be.

“I’m just doing my job!” the light told him. “We’re late! Because I may have spent the last two weeks stalking your sister, oops.”

“And it’s- Wait, what?”

There was the thing again; a jolt inside his chest. Like a heartbeat, he supposed, but something more important, something he had to remember-

“Well, you weren’t at the battle field. Where you died. And you are supposed to stay there, you know, because of your body and all that! But you’re here, in your apartment and how should I see that coming?! I know most accidents happens at home – urgh, wait, that just gives me memories of the guy and the blender. Chill, Huggins, you can do this! Soldiers are standard dead people, after all! There are so many of you!”

“Seriously, what is happening? Am I in trouble?” Was this the afterlife catching up with him? He’d figured souls of the dead were supposed to pass on or something. At least, he hadn’t seen any other souls hanging around. He just hoped this didn’t mean there was a Hell waiting for him after all. Grif gulped. “Oh man, I am, aren’t I?”

“How did you even get here?” the light asked him, flying back and forth again. “It doesn’t make _sense_. I was supposed to pick you up at the battle ground, but you were gone, and I was all panicked and confused until Muggins reminded me that this happens at time. So I tried to find your address but this place was empty! And then I found your new address! And I found you – well, I found Grif. _A_ Grif! But I didn’t realize that! So I found my Grif and I was soooo happy and no one had told me you’d be all pretty and well set!”

Simmons was still trying to tug at his sleeve, but Grif was far too busy trying to comprehend the nonsense he was being told. He became aware of his hanging jaw and quickly tried to put up  a less stunned expression. “…Is that a compliment? Are you complimenting me?! What is happening?!”

“I wasn’t talking about you! I was talking about your hot sister!”

There was the feeling again, like being gutted.

Grif turned around, trying to grab the human despite knowing it would be fruitless. But still, if he pressed himself close enough against him, it was as if there was some sort of core that remained, something he could hold onto even if he couldn’t see it.

“ _SIMMONS, THERE’S A FUCKING FLOATING LIGHT BULB IN THE MIDDLE OF THE ROOM AND IT HAS A CRUSH ON MY SISTER! GET IT AWAY!”_

“What do you want me to do?!” Simmons said, spinning around like a blind person. “I can’t even see it!”

“Don’t be like that!” the light told him. “It’s not bodily desires or anything! I don’t even have a body! So it’s a pure platonic admiration! And also, she is hot.”

“Simmons, save me, I don’t like it!”

“Stop clinging to him like a security blanket!” it scolded him. And then it froze right above his head, looking down at both of them. “Oooh, I guess that’s why you’re here! Guess we finally got that question answered! But it still doesn’t explain how you got here! Oh well, that’s the past, and we are all about the future! Well, the eternity, actually! Now, let go of the human and come with me.” It sounded so young, like a child – no, a teenager – begging for an extra favor, like Kai-

Grif froze.

“Pretty please,” the light bulb asked him, practically bumping against his nose.

“Nope,” he said while shaking his head. “No. Not doing that.”

“But how are you supposed to move on if you don’t let go! This isn’t healthy, you know.”

“Don’t you speak about health, I’ll eat as many ice creams as I want.”

Simmons was staring at him with eyes widened to the point where Grif saw a shade of blue that he’d never noticed before. “I don’t think that is morally correct, but I’ll agree with you this one time,” Simmons said before taking a step forward, standing between Grif and the door. “Is it-is it still here?”

Grif wanted to answer him, but then the light was in his face again. “You don’t need him!” it told him. “That’s not how it goes! You are not supposed to be here!”

“Yeah, Simmons said the same thing, and I proved him wrong! This is my apartment!”

“Well, it _was_. So I checked it when you weren’t at the battlefield, but it was empty, and then I had to search _the rest of the world_. I’m tiiiiired. And I can already hear Muggins scold me: ‘It’s just a simple dead soul, Huggins, you just need to concentrate!’ Yeah, well, you’re everything but simple. Now stop cuddling that human and let’s go.”

“Fuck you, I can cuddle whoever I want.”

“…Grif, just please tell me what’s going on,” Simmons pleaded, confusion only growing stronger by the second.

He was scared, Grif could tell.

He was, too.

“Oh my god,” the light gasped. “You two are really communicating. Oh my god. Oh no. This is bad. Stop doing that!”

Grif had received a lot of orders in his life.

He’d ignored most of them.

He wasn’t about the change that fact now.

“Simmons, tell me all the digits in pi!” he said, staying as close as possible to the human.

“What? Really?” Simmons asked in disbelief. His eyes were practically sparkling with excitement.

_Nerd_.

“Please,” Grif said, standing in front of him to meet his stare. “Only you can save me.”

For a moment, Simmons just kept the eye-contact. So much blue… And then he blinked, only to immediately follow orders. “Three point one four one five nine-“

“Stop doing that!” the sparkplug shrieked. “You are not supposed to do that! That’s breaking the rules!”

“Call the cops!” Grif hissed at her, standing in front of Simmons.

“I am the cops!” it argued. “Well, not really! I’m here to help you! I’m your friend! I’m Huggins! And I’m here to make sure you get your peace!”

“-two six five three five-“ Simmons continued, still unaware of what was going, but his stubborn expression let them know that he wasn’t going to stop talking any time soon.

“Why the fuck should I trust you?! You’re a sparkplug!”

“No! I’m a Grim Reaper!”

Grif widened his eyes.

“-eight nine seven-“

“Simmons, she’s a Grim Reaper!” he said, trying to put his hands on his shoulders. “You’re smart – what does that mean?!”

He finally stopped the endless stream on numbers, only to let his lips shape a round, confused ‘o’. “I…”

As if trying to split them apart, the light flew in front of his face, forcing him to back away. “Seriously, this is not good for you! Just follow me and we’ll figure it out! I can get the job done, Muggins will praise me, and you won’t have to spend all eternity suffering! Everyone wins!”

“You-“

“Grif, I don’t think this is good news,” Simmons finally said, expression grim. Grif wondered if he’d be freaking out if he could actually hear the entire conversation.

He opened his mouth to answer Simmons but the freaking light glitch wouldn’t let him. “Okay, you don’t trust me. There’s a procedure for that! You guys are more approachable if you see me in a more physical shape. Not actually physical, of course, _duh_.”

“Are you-“

And then the light exploded.

Without sound, just everything turning bright until he was forced to close his eyes.

And when he opened them, the sparkplug was gone.

A young woman was there instead. Her cheerful but fiery temper matched the red, curly hair that surrounded her head like a halo. Her round face was decorated by a frown and a set of green eyes were glaring at him. They were placed next to a countless amount of freckles – it reminded him of Simmons.

Despite no longer being a light source, she was still floating in the middle of the living room. Her feet didn’t touch the floor, and her white dress looking as if water was dragging it upwards.

_Angel_ , a part of his head said, and he figured that was a good sign. She didn’t seem to have anything to do with Hell. He tilted his head as he looked her over. “Huh. That’s not very grim.”

“I want to see,” Simmons pouted, trying to follow Grif’s stare.

“Yeah, you’re really missing out.”

“I need to see in order to understand _this_. Whatever it is.” He bit his lip before reminding him, “Don’t sign any papers.”

Now that he was no longer being blinded, Grif dared to take a step closer to this Not-so-Grim Reaper. She still looked sour, like a teenager that had just been grounded.

“Sooo… Can we send Simmons a chat invite?”

“No! We are not communicating with living humans! That’s a bad habit!”

“Pretty please?”

“No!”

Yeah, there was no way that Grif was going to take orders from a ghostly teenager. He turned towards Simmons, gesturing towards her presence near the couch. “Simmons, tell the nice lady that you want to meet her.”

It only took a second for him to begin to blush. “I, uh, hi?” he stuttered, awkwardly holding out a hand that no one was going to shake. “This would be so much easier if I could see you.”

“Also, I’m not making any decisions without Simmons,” Grif said sternly with his arms crossed.

Hearing his statement, Simmons made sure to nod. “That is true. Mainly because Grif is too stupid to make the right choice. But yes, I will read all papers before he signs anything.”

Grif could see her slowly break; the way she bit her underlip and her eyes darted around. That’s the thing about jobs; when you are supposed to do something, you can fail.

Grif had no purpose, nothing he could do wrong.

But this Reaper on the other hand…

“If I show him will you come with me?” she asked, doing her best impression of the puppy-eyes.

What a good thing that Grif was far too used to them for them to work.

“I won’t come with you if you don’t,” he said with a smirk, pushing her the final distance into the corner.

With no other options, she had to agree. “ _Fine_ ,” she snarled before turning towards Simmons. “You asked for it, mortal.”

There was another flash.

And then the flesh began to burn off her bones. The ash turned her white dress dark, and the stains grew larger until it became a hood covering her now matted hair.

The skeleton figure glared down at Simmons, a scythe in her hand.

Simmons blinked once before fainting.


	8. Shisno

“Nah-ah, no way.”

“Please.”

“Fuck off.”

“Pretty please?”

“Go away! Can’t you turn off or something?”

“I can turn people _on_. Hah, bad joke.”

As Simmons slowly came to, the voices came to belong to blurry shapes in his limited vision. He blinked twice, recognizing Grif’s worried face and then-

There was a young woman. The moment he realized this, it all came back to him; the floating skeleton figure, the scythe, _a Grim Reaper_ -

It didn’t look like the skeleton. Mainly because it had flesh and all the other stuff a body needed. But it had to be her. The hair had changed. It was all red and curly now, and her face was young and smiling and blushing. She was pretty. Maybe that was the worst part of it all.

Simmons had always had problems speaking with girls. Especially pretty ones. And undead ones.

“What the fuck?” he muttered as the reality hit him; he now had two supernatural beings in his apartment. He was getting outmanned.

“Shit, he’s waking up,” Grif said, sending him another worried look before glaring at the girl. “Enough with the whole scythe and shit.”

The girl stuck out here tongue. “That’s just my morning face.”

“I need to hire some ghost hunters,” Simmons muttered. His vision continued to spin as he slowly sat up, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Mean,” Grif snorted at him. “And if you try, just stay away from that Palomo dude. He’s going to scam you.”

Simmons ignored him and his foolish idea – it wasn’t like he was just going to set a team of ghost hunters after Grif’s ass; if that had been his plan, he would have done so long ago – and looked up at the floating girl instead. Her white dress made him think of angels, and he suddenly wondered if he was going to be punished for worshipping logic instead of god.

“You’re the Grim Reaper?” he asked.

“ _A_ Grim Reaper! There’s many of us, and I’m new on the job, actually. Not that it shows or anything.” She blushed, earning a healthy shade of red in her cheeks. “I’m Huggins, by the way, if any of you want to like use my name instead of rather offending nicknames. But I’m here to guide Grif to the afterlife so if you could just come with me-“

“No,” Grif and Simmons said at the same time, sharing a glance.

Grif crossed his arms, stepping in front of Simmons as he slowly rose from the floor. “I’m not going anywhere. Hell is probably waiting for me.” He gulped loudly. “I did a lot of bad stuff, Simmons, a lot of bad stuff! I don’t remember them but I know deep inside-“

“You’ll be fine!” Huggins said, doing a flip in the air. “It’s _easy_! You just have to let go of this world and you can waltz right into the next one.” She tilted her head, her green eyes narrowing at Simmons. “That means ditching the nerd.”

Well, ouch. “You don’t know me,” Simmons pouted in return.

It was Grif who shot him a deadpanned look. “You’re wearing a pi shirt.”

Simmons opened his mouth to argue but, well, Grif was pointing out actual facts.

Huggins cleared her throat to gain their attention again. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you but since Grif won’t let go of you I guess we can slip past the rules.”

“Let go of me?” Simmons said, frowning. He took a step to the right, feeling the familiar warmth as he practically slid into Grif’s transparent form.

Sighing loudly, as if explaining this information pained her, Huggins explained, “You’re practically a comfort blanket. When spirits can’t go to the afterlife, it’s because they cling to something from this world. But-“ She froze, her expression changing into the one of sudden realization. Simmons knew the feeling; she must have figured out something important. “Can you leave this apartment?” she asked Grif.

He shook his head. “Nope.”

“Okay, good. Your bond isn’t with him, then.”

“What?” Simmons said, unable to keep the offended tone out of his voice.

“I mean, what you two have is still very wrong and very unhealthy, but right now you’ve bonded with your apartment. It’s the one thing your very being keeps clinging onto and so you can’t move on! It’s the only reason why you’re still manifested here.”

Simmons frowned. She was speaking logic, and he could follow that. It was rather simple, actually. Grif was like a virus; he needed a host. “But Grif died on the battlefield,” he pointed out. “Can ghost move before becoming clingy?”

“No need to put it like that,” Grif said, scowling.

“They can’t!” Huggins exclaimed, and he couldn’t quite pinpoint if it was in fascination or frustration. “Which is why you’re screwing up everything I’ve ever been taught. Thank you! I checked on the apartment right after you died but you still weren’t here. You must have clung to something or someone that moved from the spot you died to here. You don’t look like the soldier type,” she said, turning towards Simmons.

Okay, he officially hated the Grim Reaper that had infiltrated his home. “I think we should think past stereotypes,” he said sourly.

“Does it even matter?” Grif asked, squaring his shoulders. He looked just as happy about the stranger’s presence as Simmons felt. “I’m here now, and I’m not moving.”

“You can’t stay here!” the girl repeating, stomping a foot. “If you stay, you’ll become a Shisno!”

“Bless you!” Simons replied automatically.

“Thank you!” she said sweetly, sending him a big smile – and so causing him to lose his voice while his brain restarted. “But I wasn’t sneezing.”

“What’s a Shisno?” Grif asked her. “Is it a disease? Am I dying?”

“You’re already dead, idiot,” Simmons reminded him.

“Oh.”

“A Shisno is a corrupted spirit. That’s what happens when a spirit stays in the mortal realm for too long.” She paused, letting that info sink in. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’ll lose any memory of who you are and finally you’ll snap! You’ve heard of haunted houses, right? Full of Shisnos! They’re bad news. I’m here to make sure that isn’t happening.”

She fell quiet after that, allowing Grif and Simmons to share a glance again. Simmons could see that Grif took the new information seriously; the usual shrug had been replaced with a big frown. He shifted the weight on his feet, looking to his left when he finally said, “You’re bullshitting.”

“No, I’m not!” she insisted. “Being a Shisno _sucks_. They are all angry and sad and creepy!”

“You were literally just a skeleton floating around. I think you are the creepy one,” Grif said, keeping his tone flat. “We’ll be fine. Just tell your boss the job’s done, and you can go ahead and cut some lawns with that scythe.”

She stared at him so intensely that Simmons feared she was going to pull out her scythe again. “You’re being very mean right now.”

“That’s just how he is,” Simmons pointed out, half-hopeful that his comment might defuse the situation.

But she just shook her head, the red hair falling around her. “But seriously, you two need to stop talking with each other. Right now.”

Simmons opened his mouth. “But-“

“Nope. Na-ah. Not allowed.”

“But I’m talking to _you_ ,” he explained and immediately her stern expression fell apart.

“Oh,” she said as she blushed again; this time in embarrassment. “Go on then.”

“You said you become a Shisno by completely forgetting who you are,” Simmons said slowly as his brain went through the facts. But he was sure he was onto something. “So if I help Grif remember, he won’t become a Shisno.”

He resisted the urge to snap his fingers.

Next to him, Grif began to smile while the Grim Reaper looked more and more uncomfortable. “I mean, technically, but-“

“That’s enough for me,” Grif declared loudly and raised his hand for a high-five. “Good plan, Simmons, I knew you could do it!”

“It’ll go wrong eventually!” she hissed at them. “Spirits can’t stay, that’s the rules.”

“Yeah, but we’re mavericks.” Grif’s smugness had returned and he planted himself in front of Simmons with his arms crossed. “So fuck off.”

She dropped her jaw. “But-“

“Simmons has a very mean vacuum cleaner,” Grif practically growled. “Wanna meet it?”

“You two are mean!” she gasped, slowly backing away.

“Fuck off, spark plug! We don’t need you!”

Grif’s last insult seemed to do the trick. Huggins let out an offended huff and then, in a motion too quick for Simmons to follow, her body disappeared and was replaced with the glowing ball of light that Grif had been rambling about before Simmons had fainted.

It glared at them for some seconds but then raced towards the window, disappearing into the blinding light of the sun.

As they were finally alone in the apartment, Grif let out a huge breath. “Well, that was weird.”

“Yeah. Totally.”

Grif turned his head. “So, any idea of how to get my memories back?”

“Nope.”

“Huh.” Grif licked his lips, eyes setting on the couch. “Let’s have an amnesia-movies marathon.”

“Good plan.” 

* * *

“You’re not leaving, right?”

Grif had already sunk into the mattress, closing his eyes as he pretended to sleep. But then Simmons’ words hit him like a whip. “’course not,” he said, staring at the wall.

“Okay.” Simmons sighed, shifting as he tried to get comfortable in the bed. “You should still pay rent,” he said as he finally dragged the blanket around his shoulders.

“Simmons, I own this place,” Grif reminded him but he was only answered by Simmons’ soft breathing as he fell asleep.

He couldn’t help but envy him. This was good, but it didn’t beat the real thing.

He missed life at times.

But things were alright, he supposed. Which was why he under no circumstances was going to follow the spark plug’s advice. Things that were good couldn’t be harmful. It had to be bullshit.

The fact that he wasn’t capable of sleeping was why he noticed the dim light in the corner of the room. “You know, you shouldn’t be keeping promises you can’t keep.”

“Oh fuck you!” Grif hissed, jumping from the bed immediately. Simmons rolled over but didn’t wake up, so Grif felt free to glare at Huggins. “I knew you didn’t leave!”

“I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to spy!” She sounded sincere but it didn’t soothe his anger that much. “It’s just- You’re my job! I can’t leave! Besides, broken promises are really really bad for you!”

“Go away!” he said for the hundredth time that day. “Simmons doesn’t like strangers in his bedroom.”

“Well, you two seem chummy together.” The light grew pink with what he guessed was a blush. “Sorry, I didn’t mean-“

“I get to share bed with Simmons,” he said slowly. “You don’t.”

It was probably the sound of his name that roused the nerd out of his sleep. He moved under the blanket, looking up at Grif with small eyes, still half-asleep. “Grif, what the fuck are you-“

“This is a dream, Simmons,” he said, sending him a smile. “Don’t worry about it.”

And then, as if hit by magic, Simmons slumped against his pillow again. Grif let out a sigh of relief.

He flipped off the Grim Reaper and then, with the same finger, gestured for her to follow him into the living room.

Knowing that they wouldn’t disturb Simmons, Grif ran a hand down his face. “Look, I don’t give a shit about my well-being. Probably why I died, huh. I don’t need you here.”

“But you do,” she insisted, her voice annoyingly sweet. “You really, really do. This isn’t good for you!” And then the ball of light had the audacity to add, “It’s not good for Simmons either.”

Grif froze, ignoring how that comment had felt like a punch to his non-existing stomach. “Hey, you’re the one messing with our lives!”

“Technically, you don’t have a life. You do have an afterlife, though, and it’s awesome!”

“I don’t care,” Grif spat at her. He knew he was being unfair but why should he give a shit about that? Things had been going great. Simmons was being chill and happy for a change. That was the important fact. How could this be wrong? “I’m not harming Simmons.”

“I’m sure you and Simmons are great friends. You’re not supposed to be, but still! It’s amazing! And sweet! And very much not allowed.” Her voice turned even softer. “It’s not like it has to _end_. In the afterlife, you two can become great friends again eventually! You just have to wait for Simmons to-“

“I WON’T LET SIMMONS DIE!”

Grif wasn’t aware that he was yelling before it’d happened. But her suggestion had caused this unfamiliar burst of anger to shoot through his empty chest, feeling him with rage that felt like fire.

As the words left his mouth, all the lights in the room began to flicker. Even the tv turned on though it only showed static.

Flashbacks from yesterday’s horror marathon hit him. “Oh man, I did that,” he said. “ _Cool_.”

“No! Not cool!” Huggins said as the electronics finally calmed down. She was the only source of light in the room now. “The stronger you get, the more corrupted you are! You don’t want to become a Shisno!”

“You are still literally talking nonsense,” Grif said. Simmons was right; the word did sound like a sneeze. “So I’m going to bed. With Simmons. Who isn’t dying. Leave us alone.”

“Simmons is a great friend but-“ Huggins suggested carefully. He could basically see how she curled in on herself. “Maybe I could be a good friend too? I’m here to help you, after all.”

Grif set his jaw. “Leave Simmons alone,” he finally said, marching back into the bedroom again. It wasn’t like he could control whether she actually left or not, but he hoped that she’d finally caught the hint.

The mattress felt harder than usually. Even as he tried to lean into Simmons’ warmth, he couldn’t fall asleep.

Huggins’ words kept echoing inside his brain, but there was something else. It- He couldn’t quite but his finger on it. But it was familiar. He saw the hallway and a figure and-

“Simmons?” he finally asked.

“Mhumm?”

“Hey, Simmons?” He had to raise his voice before the nerd began to stir.

“What?” Simmons finally opened his eyes. “Is this another dream?”

“I remember something,” Grif told him, feeling breathless.

The effect was immediate. Simmons sat straight up in bed; his messy hair being the only sign that he’d been asleep just before. “What?”

“I have a really strong connection with the vending machine.”

The blue eyes narrowed. “…Is this your way of saying that you are hungry?”

“I’m serious.” Grif couldn’t explain it but the picture was there, inside his mind. The vending machine in the stairway. And a figure… “But also hungry, yeah. But that’s not why I woke you up. Something happened there, at the vending machine. I remember.”

“Okay. Right.” Simmons couldn’t stop himself from yawning, and Grif felt a jab of pity; he knew exhaustion when he saw it. “Should we check it out-“

“Tomorrow, idiot,” Grif said, smiling happily as Simmons sunk back into the bed and allowed him to settle inside of him. Simmons’ warmth was better than any blanket. “First we sleep.”

“I sleep,” Simmons muttered into the pillow. “You are just a goddamn leech.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not letting go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading <3


	9. Detective Simmons

 “I swear to god, Grif, if all of this is just to make me buy you some chocolate, I’m going to kill you,” Simmons complained as he prepared to walk out of the door. The ghost had chatted about it the entire morning, though he cared more about the machine giving him snacks than it being a lead.

If it could even be called that.

So far all they had to go on was Grif’s vague feeling about the vending machine. That had apparently not been broken while he lived.

The goal: to discover how the vending machine had died.

And who had killed it.

 “Actually, you can’t do that since he’s already dead,” Huggins in the shape of the light ball said, entering the room through the window with a nervous giggle.

Simmons jumped at the sound of her voice, having traumatic flashbacks of the skeleton figure and a looming scythe.

Grif looked unfaced. “Also, yeah, by the way she is being a pain,” he said, flipping off the Grim Reaper. “Can’t get rid of her.”

“Excuse me from trying to save your soul from eternal suffering,” she spat back at him.

“Simmons isn’t that bad.”

“I’m not talking about him,” the light groaned, shaking at the effort. “Urgh, you are so stupid.”

But if she was stuck looking after Grif, that meant Simmons had the chance to begin the investigation. Alone. Like a true detective.

“I’ll be off,” he said, backing towards the door. “You know, to do nothing important. At all. Just hanging out, asking casual questions with my friendly neighbors. Nothing suspicious going on at all.”

“Thank you for being discreet, Simmons,” Grif snorted, rolling his eyes before the door closed before Simmons’ face. 

* * *

The vending machine looked like a vending machine. An old one. Paint was peeling off on its sides, and the front glass had cracked. Simmons took a closer look at the damage, noticing that the cobweb-like cracks fit the shape of a fist.

 “Suspicious,” he said, kneeling.

Pieces of glass had fallen from the damaged area, and the nearest shelves had been cleaned of snacks. He could imagine impatient hands reaching for free candy.

“Aha.”

He pressed his face against the glass. The sign had almost faded away, but the letter beneath an empty shelf read _Swallow Your Shmallows_. He recognized the brand; it was one of those his father had warned him about when he was a kid begging for sweets. Too much sugar into one of those things.

“Marshmallow,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

Simmons straightened his back and brushed dust from his knees as he stood up.

“Something happened here,” he said to himself. “Something…” He pointed a thin finger at the label advertising for chocolate with coffee filling. “ _Bitter_ s.”

All the marshmallows bars were gone. Grif had said that Bitters liked those in particular.

Simmons was a goddamn genius.

“Oh man,” a voice called out behind him. Simmons spun around, eyes widened as he realized he wasn’t alone in his scene of discovery. Matthews was there at the bottom of the stairs, a schoolbag slung over his shoulder. “That’s a cool wordplay.”

“Hi,” Simmons said, crossing his arms to look casual. He didn’t know where else to place them. What do people usually do with their hands? “What a nice day, huh, clouds and all. By the way, I just randomly wondered if you know anything about the broken vending machine.”

The change was immediate. The teenager bit down on his lip. “I’m not allowed to talk about that,” he said, keeping his distance as he walked in a half-circle around the vending machine – then raced up the stairs before Simmons could even blink.

As the sound of a door slamming close echoed through the entire building, Simmons smiled brightly.

“A clue!”

* * *

When Simmons stepped inside his own apartment, he was met by the sight of Huggins talking to an annoyed-looking Grif.

“Death is everything you need it to be!” the ball of light insisted. “Don’t you wanna hang out at a Hawaiian beach, huh, Grif? That’s sounds really nice! You can look at the clouds and swim and sleep and-“

The worst part was not even the fact that two supernatural beings had now invaded his apartment. No, the worst part was that her words were working. Simmons knew Grif well enough to see how the description of the landscape softened his expression. The irritation left his eyes, being replaced by a sense of longing-

Simmons could not let that- that lightning bug corrupt Grif.

Huggins flew around in a small circle when Simmons revealed himself, jumping between them to halt the conversation. “Uhm, I have to talk with Grif about something important stuff that is, in fact, important.” By instinct he reached for Grif’s hand to pull him away – only to see his limb go through Grif’s form.

Grif still followed him into the bedroom anyway. “Gee, sounds like you had fun playing detective,” he said. At least the weird look had left his eyes.

“I know Matthews knows something,” Simmons said.

Grif blinked. “You _know_ he knows something?”

“I know I know.”

“So now I know you know that he knows. Does he know you know that he knows?”

“No,” Simmons said but then shook his head. “I mean, yes. Alliteration caught me off guard.”

“So now I know that you know that he knows but we do not know what he knows?”

“I don’t know,” Simmons said, sighing.

With a tilted head, Grif smacked his lips. “That sucks.”

“I know.” But Simmons’ frown was quickly replaced by a small smile: he was too smart to be stopped by something as idiotic as lack of knowledge.

And then the frown returned as he realized what it would take to move on from here.

“…But I know who knows what Matthews knows.”

* * *

 “HiIbroughtwine,” Simmons said in one quick exhale. It was probably not the most polite of greetings, but at least the bottle in his hand made his words true.

And it worked; Donut blinked twice but let him inside with a smile.

“So,” the blond man said a few minutes later when they were sitting around the table with filled wine glasses and pieces of cheese in front of them. Donut rested his chin on his hands. “You want to share gossip?”

Simmons winced; he’d never been a big fan of wine. Or beer, for that sake. “I-“

“You should have called ahead!” Donut said, shaking his glass to let the wine twirl. “Your nails look _horrible_ and there’s nothing like sharpening your nails _and_ tongue.”

Simmons excused himself by almost choking to death. When he could finally breathe again, he ignored the heat in his cheeks and tried to lean back in his chair as he kept his voice calm. “I hear you see everything.”

Donut obviously took that as a compliment. “You can thank the street mirror for that.”

“I need to know who broke the vending machine.”

“Oh.” Donut froze and took a bit too long to put down his glass. With a dramatic sigh, he ran a hand through his hair and leaned closer to the guest. “That is valuable information, Simmons,” he said. “You could put someone in great trouble. Someone who might be undeserving of it.”

Simmons tried his best not to blink. “I’ll have to ask Lopez then.”

“Please,” Donut said and took a sip of his drink again. “Lopez wouldn’t appreciate good gossip if it bit him in his firmly shaped butt. I have the knowledge you need. The question is if you’re willing to pay for it.”

“P-pay?”

“We all have secrets, Simmons,” Donut said with a smile. “I want to know yours.”

* * *

 “I can’t believe you befriended Donut on Basebook,” Grif tsked at him when he’d returned to his apartment to update him on the status of the mission. The light bug had been sent away; currently distracted with the very important mission of chasing pigeons away from the kitchen window. “He’ll have access to your holiday pictures now.”

“I know,” Simmons said as the horror sank in. “That’s what he wanted.”

Information for information. At least Donut’s request had been quick to fulfill; it’d only taken one click to accept his friend invitation on Basebook.

“Can’t blame him,” Grif said. “I want to see how you look like lobster red and in math-pun boxer shorts too.”

Deciding not to comment on Grif’s smirk, Simmons made sure to stick to the subject. “Bitters broke the vending machine a year ago during a fight with Sarge.”

Grif took a brief moment to process this, raising a single eyebrow. “And I bet you don’t have the guts to ask Bitters about it-“

“I have plenty of guts,” Simmons said, setting his jaw.

* * *

 “Sarge?” Simmons whispered in the lowest voice possible as he crept into the basement. Staying crouched made him feel like a thief, but he needed to attract as little attention as possible. “Sarge?” he asked again before continuing: “Oh well, looks like he isn’t here.”

With that conclusion said out loud to himself, Simmons thought it reasonable to leave already. He’d tried his best. Good work. It’d be rude to disturb the owner of the building like this, asking random questions.

It was best to just leave.

But as he turned around for the exit, he was stopped by a blinding light. “You are very bad at communicating with your fellow humans.”

Simmons didn’t scream but he did bite his tongue by accident and it _hurt_. “Go away,” he hissed, tasting blood.

“Since you are breaking into someone’s property, you could use some heavenly enlightenment.” The light flew even closer, raising her voice as she said, “This is bad, and you suck.”

“I’m not-“ Simmons began but cut himself off before thinking of a proper sentence. “It’s not normal to ask people about broken vending machines, okay?” he finally said bitterly.

“What about unbroken ones?” Huggins suggested.

“No,” he said with a sigh. As he wondered why he was even doing this, he ran a hand through his hair. Things had been easier when his life had been normal. But he couldn’t back out of this now, he supposed. “I guess I could just start up a conversation about the troublesome youth and wait for…”

The familiar bunch of colors caught his eye. He looked towards the workbench, recognizing the picture from before: the one with all of the inhabitants gathered for what seemed like a family photo.

But beneath it, half covered by a bunch of papers, there was another photograph. There were only two persons in the frame this time, and none of them were smiling.

Sarge and Grif were standing next to each other, staring straight at the camera.

They were in uniforms, Simmons realized. They were soldiers…

“That’s Grif!” Huggins exclaimed happily.

“Grif and Sarge,” Simmons corrected her, unable to tear his eyes away from the photograph. “They were in the army together?” he asked out loud. Grif in the picture didn’t look much different from the Grif that’d been haunting his apartment. It must have been taken for Grif’s final mission. “Only Sarge came home…”

“ _Wrong_ ,” Huggins said, sounding a tad too condescending. “Grif’s soul clung to him. That’s how he got back!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "I wanna play Skyrim" I say and then opens a document and writes this chapter the entire evening. I suck at doing anything else than writing.
> 
>  
> 
> we are getting closer to... important stuff.


	10. You Know He Had to Do It to ‘Em

“I’m going to tell Grif!” Huggins said, already doing a flip of excitement.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Simmons tried to leap after her – it was, after all, _his_ discovery – but it was really hard to race against someone who didn’t have a physical body.

Huggins let a giggle, “See you later, mortal!” and proceeded to fly through the ceiling. She could hear Simmons curse as he stumbled towards the door.

He was probably still making his way up the stairs when she flew in front of Grif’s face. “Who do you care most about?” she asked, so thrilled that she could barely keep still.

“What?” He frowned and looked towards the door. “Do you mean between you and Simmons or-“

“No, stupid. About anyone! In your life! While you lived!” She could see the confusion growing on his face, but she couldn’t give up now. This was how to crack this job. She just knew it. If this Sarge was the key, then Grif just had to remember him and find his peace. “Try to think back.”

“Pretty sure if I could, I wouldn’t be here.”

“Please try? Pretty please? Is it sibling – or parent – or maybe someone outside the family, like a father figure-“

The lines on Grif’s face softened as the light entered his brown eyes. “Kai.”

“Uhm, no, I’m pretty sure it’s pronounced Sarge.”

“ _Sarge_?!” Grif spat and looked as if someone had forced him to swallow a lemon. “Yurg, no, what the fuck. Why would it be him?! I don’t even remem… I mean, I remember hating him. Dude sucks, urgh, and all that, but he isn’t-“

“But you went to war with him!” Huggins couldn’t hide her disappointment when Grif didn’t seem to react to that. “You-“

The door slammed open and Simmons stumbled inside, red-faced and panting. “ _Grif_ ,” he gasped as he doubled over. The wheeze that came from his lungs sounded almost worrisome. “I have- to tell – you- don’t listen – to _her_ – I – was the one – who – discovered – you and Sarge –“

“Jesus Christ, man, what did I tell you about exercise in my home? It’s forbidden.” Grif hovered near him, hands reached out as if he could touch him.

When Simmons had finally collected enough air to speak a coherent sentence, he looked at Grif with eyes that gleamed in excitement. “You bonded with Sarge. That’s how you got here.”

“What?”

“Ghost can follow the person they’ve bonded with,” Huggins added to the conversation. “And if they bond to a place, well, that doesn’t really move. So they’re stuck. Like you. You must have unconsciously bonded with Sarge, followed him home, sensed your apartment and bonded with that instead.”

“So I chose this rotten shithole over Sarge? That sounds right.”

“Why Sarge, though?” Simmons asked. It wasn’t that he had anything against the man, but he’d lived here long enough to know that Sarge’s experiments were a bit… unstable. “I mean, you went to the war together which is also strange-“

Grif blinked. “We did?” he sounded genuinely surprised. “I can’t remember shit.”

“But what if you try?” Huggins flew closer to Grif’s face, circling around him. “If you try to think back and focus on Sarge, what do you feel?”

“I-“ Grif’s mouth kept opening and closing while he tried to remember, allowing his thought process to be followed. Simmons couldn’t help but stare at it, mesmerized. “I mean, I hate the guy. He’s annoying. But he’s also just… _there_. I mean, when I think back, he’s there. Like a constant. And that feels good. Despite him being so _Sarge_.”

“So there’s a connection. Maybe you died in the guy’s arms. Who knows? But…” Huggins trailed off, and her light dimmed as she lost her focus. And then, suddenly, she sparkled. “I have to check something out. Might be gone for a while. Just off to do some important immortal stuff. You know. Casual awesomeness. Don’t miss me too much.”

“We won’t,” Grif and Simmons replied in unison.

Huggins exited the apartment by flying through the window, and that left Simmons and Grif to stand awkwardly in the living room.

“Privacy,” Grif sighed, “a value that hasn’t existed since the government got wifi.”

“It’s nice,” Simmons said. “I mean, it’s, you know, nice. To talk.”

“She annoys me. Like, what the fuck does she know? We didn’t ask for her help. We were doing just fine. Right?”

He’d turned to stare at Simmons who met the brown eyes with a nervous smile. He swallowed, unable to look away. “Yeah,” he said. “Very fine.” And then he bit his lip so it hurt. “So, uhm, Grif, how did you die?”

“What the fuck, Simmons?” Grif had taken a step backwards while his expression changed into one of disgust. “You don’t ask a man that.”

“Sorry. I just needed to-“

“How long is your penis?”

Simmons paled. “Wh-what?”

“I said, how long is your penis?”

“Why would you want to know that?” Simmons sputtered as heat crept into his face. “That’s none of your business-“

“Exactly. Those are the rules, Simmons, two socially accepted rules. Dudes don’t talk about their penises or how they died.”

“…I feel like there should be a coherence between the two elements-“

“It doesn’t matter.” Grif pouted and cross his arms. “It doesn’t matter how I died. So knock it off.”

For a second, Simmons was sure he saw a splash of crimson across his chest, and he remembered the ache, the rattling sound as lungs had been filled with blood. “I get nightmares sometimes,” Simmons admitted.

“No shit, I watch you sleep.”

“I’m just saying that I’ll probably be super scared when I die. Even knowing about you and the light bug and, you know. It’s just- scary.”

Grif turned his head towards the window, and like this, when the light fell into the room at the right spot, his body seemed vaguer, transparent enough for Simmons to see through him towards the family pictures on the walls.

“I probably shat myself when I died,” he said. “I just remember it hurt like hell. Like, enough to make you feel like you were dying. So I’d probably figured it all out. I- I didn’t want to be there. It wasn’t _my_ fault. I never- I didn’t- Those were the fuckers who’d sent me out there in the first place and I just- I just wanted to be with Kai. I didn’t- _I didn’t want to fucking die_.”

He flickered again, and the rawness of Grif’s voice made him seem vulnerable enough for Simmons to reach out for him. Grif’s big eyes had been filled with genuine fear through his speech, and Simmons knew what he felt because he’d experienced it, over and over in every nightmare and he knew how much he hurt, how much he needed to comfort.

Simmons grabbed Grif’s hand and squeezed.

The warmth travelled through his arm, up towards his chest and head. It was unpleasant at first, almost burning, but then it settled into a gentle heat that reminded Simmons of drinking hot cocoa during winter. He could almost taste it, a sweet sensation in his mouth.

Grif was the only to pull away. “So, uhm,” he said with his head turned away. “Did you figure out why Bitters did it?”

“I’ll- I’ll go ask him right now,” Simmons stuttered and stumbled towards the door.

* * *

“Why did you break the vending machine?”

 Bitters had barely even opened the door before the question was thrown at him. He frowned before narrowing his eyes. “You can’t accuse me. There’s no evidence.”

“I’ve had several witnesses say you trashed the machine during an argument with Sarge half a year ago, during springtime. According to Donut, it happened on a Monday and he remember this because that’s his-“

“-Wine and Cheese day,” Bitters finished for him. “I know. So why are you digging into this now?”

“Just some insurance stuff,” Simmons said, dragging out the words. “I’ll write it down as an accident. But I need the details in order to get the machine fixed. And I figured that you, as a formerly prime customer, would be interested in that.”

The scowl remained on Bitters’ face, but he’d tilted his head in curiosity. “Can it really run again?”

“Probably. I mean, the candy is far past due date but-“

“That isn’t a problem.”

“Yeah, I figured that,” Simmons said and held back a sigh – he knew of Grif’s eating habits, and he suspected that Bitters’ were much the same. “But if you used the machine that much, why did you break it?”

“What’s it to you?”

Simmons couldn’t exactly tell him that the ghost living in his apartment insisted that the vending machine played some sort of role – well, technically, he _could_ but that would only confuse Bitters further. If he even believed him.

Considering the fact he played ghost hunters with Matthews, he probably believed more in ghosts than Simmons did, but still.

This was all about Grif.

“I just need to know,” Simmons said, “so we can, uh, have the machine back. Whatever.”

Bitters hesitated another second, watching Simmons closely, before revealing, “I got mad.”

“At the vending machine?” Bad memories filled Simmons’ mind. “Oh man, I remember when I was like six and I finally got a dollar from my dad to buy this sweet chocolate for my birthday and then it got stuck and he didn’t believe and he said I lied and-“

“Dude, this is not your tragic backstory,” Bitters cut him off. “And I wasn’t mad at it. I was mad at Sarge. He came home and said that Grif was dead.”

“…oh.”

The teen looked directly uncomfortable now, constantly shifting the weight on his feet while glaring daggers at Simmons.

But he still had questions he needed to ask. “…Were you mad about Sarge coming home and him saying that Grif had died?”

Bitters shrugged. “Both? I mean, he went along to make sure they both got back, right? So he fucked up.”

“I, uhm…”

Simmons struggled to find the right words to address this revelation but halted when Grif suddenly appeared in front of him, staring at Bitters with a puzzled look.

“Holy crap, I knew the bastard gave a shit,” the ghost said, smirking. “But that’s no excuse to murder an innocent vending machine.”

Simmons stared, torn between replying to oblivious Bitters or asking Grif how the fuck he’d managed to leave the apartment-

And then he remembered.

_Ghosts can follow the person they’ve bonded with._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg actual plot.


	11. Press F to Pay Respects

“This is sooo cuuuute,” Huggins sang as they explained their situation back in the apartment. She’d taken the form of a human again, and the edge of her white dress brushed against the floor when she spun around in a happy circle.

Grif snorted at her joy. “It’s gay,” he said. “The word you’re looking for is ‘gay’. And you never told me, Simmons.”

Meanwhile, Simmons was doing his best not to have a meltdown breakdown in front of the two. “I’m not- You’re not- You’re- I’m-“ He cut himself off with a mangled scream.

Grif and Huggins watched him cry.

“Great,” the Grim Reaper said. “You broke your human.”

Simmons wiped his face with the back of his hand and glared up at her with narrowed eyes. “Why are you back?”

“Pfft. I never left,” she said. “But I couldn’t be here while you two connected souls. You needed privacy from that. So I just watched through the window.”

“What does this mean?” Simmons asked while waving between Grif and himself.

“That we’ve evolved,” the ghost answered before grabbing his shoulders with a sense of urgency. “Simmons, try eating chocolate. I need to see if I can taste heaven again.”

Simmons shoved him away and tried not to shudder when his hand went through his spectral form. “This is bad,” he said and turned towards Huggins again. “Why aren’t you freaking out?”

“Oh, this is a freakshow, but we need it.”

“Why?” he cried. “Because he can follow me now? Because that just seems very stalkerish-“

“Now we can find Kai!” Huggins yelled and did a backflip. That defiance of gravity seemed to calm her down for a moment, and her voice was gentle when she floated closer to him. “That’s the point of it all. Remember? To save Grif from eternal doom.”

Simmons swallowed. “…Right.”

He flinched when a chocolate bar suddenly smacked against the side of his head. “Ow,” he said dully, glaring at the candy before turning his glance on the ghost who’d thrown it.

“Man, I’m getting good,” Grif said smugly, staring at his own hand as if he’d used it to throw the object. “Eat,” he then commanded Simmons who crossed his arms.

“No.”

Huggins jumped between them before a proper argument could start. “Grif is no longer haunting his apartment,” she said. “He’s haunting your ass.”

Simmons’ hands flew behind his back to cover said body part. “Do not touch my ass,” he hissed before throwing another question at Huggins. “What does this mean?”

“You go somewhere, he gets to follow. So if you find his sister, he’ll find her too.”

“Kai…”

The ghost had whispered the name with a strange sense of longing seeping into his expression. He barely seemed to notice them as his eyes grew distant, and Simmons watched the display of rare emotion with a stuttering heart.

He breathed in deeply before saying, “But we don’t know where she is. Donut said that after Grif, well.. She didn’t tell anyone where she moved to. She just wanted to be left alone.”

Grif snapped out of his trance, only to turn his head and share a long glance with Huggins. “We could try to track her down,” he then said.

Simmons frowned, ignoring the painful jab from being left out of whatever was happening between the two supernatural beings. “How do we do that?”

“Well, you hang out with a ghost and a Grim Reaper,” Huggins said with a voice almost condescending enough to make his nostrils flare. “I think we’ll figure something out.”

“With your magic powers?” Simmons asked, and his fingers suddenly itched for a notebook to scramble down the results of an experiment. You didn’t share your apartment with supernatural beings without getting some useful observation data out of it.

Both Grif and Huggins winced at that question.

“Don’t say that,” Huggins hissed. “It makes us sound like pixies.”

“But… you’re a glowing, floating girl-“

Huggins flickered twice to briefly reveal her skeletal form. “Don’t make me use my scythe.”

Simmons gulped.

“Can’t we just say that we are incredible skilled and we’re gonna use those skills?” Grif suggested and floating in front of Simmons.

The human quickly nodded. “Okay. So what’s the plan?”

It was unnerving when Huggins began to smile slyly again. She put a pale finger to her bottom lip as she said, “If we have something that belonged to Kai, we could use that connection to her to get a sense of her location.”

“It could be anything,” Grif said and floated around Simmons. “As long as it belonged to her.”

“But I don’t have…” Simmons began and then trailed off in horror. “Oh no.”

* * *

“I’m not going to touch it.”

“C’mon, Simmons, we have to make this work.”

With a sigh, Simmons pulled on the rubber gloves and prepared to meet his doom. “We are not going to make it come to life, are we?” he asked while holding out the dildo at a safe length.

Next to him, Huggins giggled. “ _’Come’_.”

“Stop it,” Simmons hissed before carefully placing the dildo on the make-shift altar on the floor, created by tin foil, circular drawings and the scented candles Donut had given him as a welcome gift.

He then stood up to pull the door handle – just to be sure no one would interrupt them while this scene was going on.

Grif followed him. “Dude, you’ve checked the door three times. It’s locked.”

Simmons sighed deeply as he returned to the cursed toy, kneeling next to it. “This is the most stupid thing I’ve ever done in my life,” he muttered and wondered if he should just have become a lawyer like his father had wanted him to be.

Grif crouched next to him. “…Dude, you have the light the candles.”

“ _Why_?”

“For the mood,” Grif answered as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Simmons begrudgingly did was he was told. Maybe the whole apartment building would burn down after this. “What’s next?”

“Then you have to think very hard,” Huggins said and giggled again. “ _’Hard’_.”

“About what? Grif’s sister?” Simmons said and immediately wore a horrified expression. “I’m not going to think about Grif’s sister while holding her dildo.”

Next to him, Grif nodded. “Good move.”

“Okay,” Huggins said when her laughter had finally ended. “Think about Grif then.”

“ _That’s not making it better_ ,” Simmons hissed. He’d raised his hands, as if about to cover his own ears.

But then-

“Look!” Huggins yelled. “Something is happening!”

A pale finger pointed towards the altar where the dildo was slowly rising, flying above the candles. Then, with a loud buzzing sound, it began to vibrate while levitating.

The sight had Simmons screaming as he flung himself across the living room to hide behind the couch.

The dildo fell against the floor when the laughter sounded.

Both Huggins and Grif were doubled over, howling in laughter while wiping non-existent tears from their eyes.

 “I’m so good,” Grif said after halting his powers that had let the dildo fly. “This was so good. Oh man.”

“I hate you both,” Simmons growled as he came out of hiding. His heart was still racing, but now he had replaced his fear with anger. He felt a need to stay in a shower for a long time.

The ghost and the Grim Reaper still laughed as he marched past them with angry steps (he mentally apologized to his downstairs neighbor).

“C’mon, Simmons,” Grif said and followed him. “You have to make death worth living.”

“That’s it,” Simmons snapped at him. “You’re on your own.”

“Pleaaaase?” Huggins called out as he walked towards his bedroom for an idiot-free zone. “How else are we going to find Kai?”

Simmons stopped in the doorway. He didn’t want anything to do with the dildo or the assholes that had set him up, but perhaps an eternity of suffering was a too big of a punishment when it came to Grif.

“Didn’t you stalk her for months?” he asked as he turned around.

“She did,” Grif said, sounding as if he was tasting those words to understand just what it meant. He then floated towards Huggins in an unusual quick speed. “You know where she is!”

Despite the pale light surrounding her, Huggins managed to blush. “About that… I mean, I was in her apartment? Look, I travel with the speed of light. Surroundings are a blur. I just tried to find a Grif and followed my seventh sense – that’s right, I have one of those – and got lucky.”

“So you could just comb through the rest of America for her?” Simmons suggested. “If you’re really that fast – which would be physically impossible, by the way-“

“I _could_ ,” Huggins reluctantly agreed. “But what use is that when Grif can’t follow- Oh… I’ll be right back.”

Her eyes widened before she spun around so quickly that she turned into the familiar ball of light. Before Simmons could blink, she’d already left the building through the open window.

In the silence of their newfound privacy, Grif hummed and blew out the candles by stretching out a hand. “That was stupidly easy,” he said, nodding towards the window.

“Right,” Simmons said. “Definitely easier than levitating a useless dildo.”

“Sorry about that,” Grif said just a tad too quickly to sound genuine.

“I hate you.”

“I hate you too, buddy. How about some chocolate to make up for it?”

This time Simmons’ reflexes were quick enough to smack the bar away before it could hit him in the face. “Did you know that we bonded?” he demanded to know.

Grif frowned as he answered, “Nope. I mean, something felt good and I liked that, but I didn’t know that it was you. Oh god – do you think it happened the same way with Sarge?”

“It felt… warm,” Simmons said, recalling the sensation of the gentle heat. He quietly realized that for the rest of his life, he would miss this warmth and forever feel cold while trying to fall asleep.

“Yeah,” Grif said longingly. “Like being alive again.”

That last sentence had Simmons pick up the chocolate with an excuse of suffering from low blood sugar after their prank. Despite his lies, he couldn’t deny the comfort as the snack melted on his tongue.

Grif, apparently, shared his taste buds now.

“I love you, man. It’s so good,” he said and looked as if he was about to cry. “Chocolate, I missed you.”

Simmons had opened his mouth to comment on that, but he was cut off by the ball of light that suddenly illuminated their living room again.

“I found her!” Huggins exclaimed, flickering in excitement. “She’s in Chorus!”

Simmons had heard of the city before, and had even seen a sign with its name on the highway while driving the long way to his new apartment, but he had never set foot in the place himself. “That’s a state away,” he said.

But nothing could ruin Huggins’ joy about the fact. “Road trip!” she exclaimed while flying around Grif as if he was a Christmas tree.

“We can’t- we can’t just leave!”

“Dude, it’s Friday,” Grif reminded him. “You don’t have work till Monday. Plus, you’d just be wasting your Friday night on the couch.”

“ _You’re the one who always insist on pizza and chill_ ,” Simmons reminded him sharply to hide his own hurt over the fact that Grif apparently hadn’t appreciated those Fridays (and practically all other evenings of the week) as much as he had.

At least movie nights beat the times he’d just spent up working all evening.

“This is perfect,” Huggins exclaimed, still going on about that road trip idea. “I can be your headlight.”

“No,” Simmons said firmly. “We’re not doing that.”

* * *

 An hour later, he placed the suitcase in the trunk of his car.

“This isn’t as much fun,” Huggins pouted as she’d been ordered to hide inside the taillight.

Grif, on the other hand, was going for the steering wheel. His eyes were practically gleaming. “Can I drive?”

“You literally can’t,” Simmons huffed.

“Sorry. Old habit.” The ghost sighed deeply while still staring at the car with a passionate glance. “I miss driving.”

Simmons mentally prayed that Grif wouldn’t try to take control of the vehicle – the road trip already seemed like a bad idea.

“Stay in the passenger seat,” Simmons said and closed the trunk. “I’m the driver.” He tried to make that sentence sound confident as he walked past Grif towards the car door.

“And why am I worried about that fact- _Simmons_!”

Unlike the human, Grif saw the incoming car that suddenly swerved, hitting Simmons who kept staring at the ghost until he was smashed against the windshield.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear im not just doing this to be evil. There are plotpoints.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, so this is one fic I never thought I'd write, but my wonderful friend creatrix suddenly came up with this Ghost AU and as we randomly talked about ideas, a plot came into mind, and well, this fic happened. Woops. I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> This fic also takes a spin on wonderful Amvial's ghost hunter au!
> 
> Be sure to check out both of these amazing artists!  
> http://amvial.tumblr.com/  
> http://creatrixanimi.tumblr.com/
> 
> Feedback is appreciated <3 thank you for reading!
> 
> As always: English is not my native language so I apologize for any mistakes, and you can find me on tumblr as riathedreamer


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